


Movement to Contact

by paintstroke



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Canon Universe, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, During Canon, First Kiss, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sex, Slow Burn, Surfing, Uncertainty, breaking rules, misreading situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28929939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintstroke/pseuds/paintstroke
Summary: Deserts to ocean.  The rules of engagement themselves. Emotions. Superior officer to… something more?Everything was always changing.Brad had been warned not to let his emotions take over, but these emotions in particular shouldn’t even have existed. During their deployment, Fick ran hot and cold, and Brad was never sure if his camaraderie would be met with a smile or a rebuke. It kept him off balance — at least it did at first…
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the chemistry between the actors in the mini-series and although other information has slipped in; this piece of fiction has exactly zero relation to real-life people.
> 
> Sometimes it feels like everyone and their dog has had a go at writing their ‘getting together’ story. Much better writers than me, certainly. But the scenes were in my head, and I needed them out of my head, and I hope that a few of you enjoy reading this. <3

**Brad**

Things were going to be happening soon.

He could feel it.

Brad had been at the Military Free Fall School for a good chunk of the summer. The endless repetition of the jumps just made him happy to get back to the recon community. Happier still when he felt the buzz in the air around Pendleton. He’d easily slipped into the familiar grind of the daily routine, secure in the assumption that they’d be moving out soon. 

“Sergeant Colbert.” 

Brad turned. He was familiar with most of the new arrivals in Bravo company already, but Wynn was walking with a stranger. Brad took in the silver bar and straightened to attention. The lieutenant had joined the platoon while he’d been away. Brad always expected the worst from new officers. Seven years and five units had taught him to temper his hopes. Better to be impressed than disappointed. 

“Sir.”

“At ease,” the lieutenant said immediately, and offered his hand. Brad took it firmly. The lieutenant’s grip was solid and warm. He didn’t attempt to crush Brad’s hand in a machismo display. That held promise.

Once, Brad had considered himself a good judge of character. Time, his ex, and his best friend had proved him wrong, but something in him responded immediately to the intelligence behind the officer’s eyes. 

He wanted to be right about this impression. 

“I’ve heard good things,” the officer said with an easy smile. “Your work with the 15th MEU has led to quite the reputation.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Brad still got chills when he thought back to charging the machine gun nest during OEF. The commendation medal certainly opened doors, though. At least jump school had given some variety to his nightmares. He didn’t especially want to be the one pegged for suicidal missions, so he deflected the praise. “I had a good team.” 

Brad glanced briefly at Wynn. Judging by Wynn’s body language, he was at ease with their new lieutenant. Brad took that as a enough of a sign and relaxed as well.

“Lieutenant Fick was on the board the USS Dubuque alongside us last tour. Headed the weapons platoon for 1/1.” Brad studied the LT while Wynn spoke, trying to bring some memory of him to mind. It was strange to realize that they might have crossed paths without Brad noticing. 

Fick’s smile was far too brilliant. “I think Sergeant Colbert kept his surfboard in my room, to be honest.”

Brad did a double take. He’d had a board in storage, sure, and the storage suite was an unused room in the officer’s tower about the ship, but… really? Wynn smoothly stepped in, distracting Brad from reconsidering his own recon skills. Maybe too many drops had shaken something loose in his brain.

“Lieutenant Fick passed the BRC this summer. We’re lucky to have him — he comes highly recommended by Major Whitmer. He’s been out on a few exercises with Reyes’ team already while waiting for the whole platoon to get back.” 

Fick seemed at ease with the praise, casually confident. With Whitmer’s recommendation, it might even be deserved. 

Fick grinned. In anyone else Brad might have called the expression sly, or perhaps playful. He wasn’t sure how to read the lieutenant yet. “I don’t think you ever made it to Rudy’s morning workouts on the Dubuque. Shame. We might have met earlier.”

Brad most certainly had not. They could order him to PT and he kept the fitness standard diligently but he had better things to do with his free time. He narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to get a measure of the man in front of him. Brad took a chance. 

“I hear good things come to those who wait, sir.” 

He wanted to see how Fick would react. It was rare that Brad felt this kind of curiosity for one of his work colleagues. 

Fick’s smile bloomed wide, transforming his features again. Fuck. How had he gotten through the BRC with that innocence? Despite Fick’s previous command, Brad wondered if he and Gunny would have to defend the LT; with a face like that he _looked_ cherry.

“Evidently you’re well acquainted with one of the USMC’s guiding principles, sergeant.” The teasing tone dropped, the playfulness draining suddenly from Fick’s face, and he turned something much more intense on Brad. “Glad to have you as one of my team leaders.” 

Fick didn’t seem disingenuous at all. He tilted his head at Wynn, flashed Brad another of those smiles that probably had panties dropping during libo. Jesus, Brad thought. Lucky bastard. He probably didn’t even have to _try_ to pull in dates. 

“Don’t let me waste any more of your time, though,” Fick continued, looking back at Wynn. “I’ll be meeting with the platoon one-on-one at some point soon, we can talk more then.”

“Sir,” Brad said, answer enough. 

An officer who didn’t need to be the center of attention. It was certainly a novelty. Brad turned to watch Lt. Fick and Gunny Wynn walk off, certain that something significant had just happened, but he was entirely at a loss to explain why. Or what.

* * *

Brad lay on his rack and ignored the activity that filled the canvas tent. The shouts, the card game, the impromptu wrestling match in the corner; none of those mattered. Not really. It was worse than the barracks at Oceanside, but only because there wasn’t the thin veneer of privacy that the barracks’ walls provided. Even if those were wishful thinking, at best. 

The noise around him gradually dropped off. The spreading silence made Brad glance up from where he had been half-heartedly napping in the heat, instinctively searching for his immediate team members, hoping that he wouldn’t have to step in to stop a poorly thought out fight. But it wasn’t a confrontation. 

Lieutenant Fick was standing there. 

“How’s the tracker set up coming along, Brad?” Fick asked. By the time they had gotten to Kuwait, it was Brad’s first name, more often than not, that the lieutenant used. 

Brad swung an arm out lazily to pick up the Blue Force Tracker from beside his sleeping bag. The cords still snaked out of the tent, attached to one of the diesel generators. 

“Much better than the non-existent maps, sir,” he managed to fold criticism into the statement. Fick ignored it. Brad swung himself upright, sitting on the edge of his sleeping bag instead of sprawled across it, using one of the nearby boxes as a desk to set the tracker on. 

Lieutenant Fick took it as an invitation, and sat beside him. “According to the CO, the map issue is company-wide. They’re working on it.” 

“How many of the trackers are we getting, sir?” 

“Just the one in our battalion so far.” 

Brad glanced up as the AO loaded. Slowly, the men adjusted to having an officer in the tent with them. The general volume increased again, but their antics remained restrained. 

Brad told himself he could relax, too. But Fick’s presence at his side was enough to keep him on edge. He didn’t examine the cause of that tension too closely. After all, Fick was an officer. It was expected.

* * *

** Nate **

It was a tough call what was worse: the blaring heat outside, or the rank, stale air in the barracks tent. Both had an almost physical weight. The most he could say for going inside was that it was a change. 

“Join me for a game, sir?” 

Nate turned towards Brad’s voice before he’d completely adjusted to the lower light filtering through the canvas. Brad was resetting a board. Sitting on an MRE box, the chess ‘table’ was at the same height, bracketed between his spread knees. Another box sat opposite him. The empty opponent’s seat. Nate smiled, pressing his lips against his teeth, caught between what he wanted and what he knew his reply should be.

Brad’s eyes were bright in the dim light. “I’d be interested in seeing your strategies, sir.” It was a challenge. Nate ached to answer it. He was interested himself. He’d gotten to know Brad a little. Not much. The quiet loner was still an enigma, but the fierce intelligence — and heart — that Nate had caught glimpses of was still a tantalizing curiosity. 

“I can’t.” Maybe he could. But there was the off-chance that it could be seen as favoritism, and he already knew he was going to be walking a thin line when it came to this particular sergeant. 

Brad studied him carefully, rolling a pawn between his fingers. “We’re starting a tournament.”

Nate felt raw under that gaze. It was discomforting how quickly Brad could see through to the truth of the situation, and he got the impression that Brad knew exactly what he was pushing at. He was glad Brad was one of the team leaders in his platoon, but personally, he was far more comfortable with that piercing gaze when it was turned elsewhere.

A bead of sweat on the back of his neck finally gave into gravity, dragging down his spine like a teasing caress. Nate quirked a half-smile, regretfully shaking his head. 

“I’ve got a live-fire exercise to set up for Tuesday,” Nate said, glad that he’d come with a purpose. “Command cleared us.”

Brad’s grin bloomed, sharp and wicked. “A much better game, sir.”

Nate nodded once, fighting the compulsion to grin back. “Spread the word. Have all victors prepped and ready to push off at zero-eight-hundred tomorrow.”

Brad stood, the chess set up abandoned. Nate made an about face and left the tent, not entirely sure why he was left feeling so unsettled.

* * *

** Brad **

Brad’s former platoon commander had always remained at the command post in Afghanistan, nominally for coordination, while Brad led his small team on foot during the secretive missions he’d trained for. Here, he had to cede his earned leadership credentials, gaining a rusted out Humvee in return for the loss of his independence. He’d expected to get through this new style of deployment by gritting his teeth. 

Perversely, he found himself enjoying the lieutenant’s company. Not every moment, certainly. Maybe not even the majority. But there were honestly times when he was glad to share a remark or two with Fick, to get some different insights and share some of his own experience and opinions. He’d been summoned, more than a handful of times, and had arrived at Fick’s side expecting orders. Instead, he’d been greeted by casual questions, thoughtful commentary on that day’s news from the BBC and how it might relate to them. 

Still. It was one thing for Brad to comment to the lieutenant when they were alone or under Gunny’s easy watch, but after the live-fire exercises, the after-action involved all the team leaders. And Fick hadn’t asked for adjustments. Brad glanced around, but everyone was just confirming what they’d been told, accepting this new procedure. Although they were expected to memorize their responses, this wasn’t a classroom. This was their lives.

Brad searched Fick’s face. Fick could ream Brad out for questioning him, or shoot his suggestion down. But all the strategies with the vehicles were relatively new, so perhaps they were malleable. 

Brad took the chance. “Sir, not to question the SOP…” he began politely, and sketched out an idea that wouldn’t involve leaving a team wounded and alone. 

There were a handful of reasons why Fick should reprimand him right then and there. But he didn’t. Fick turned to Wynn. 

It wasn’t an immediate ‘no’. 

Brad felt a surge of hope. If they could modify the SOP to make sense on the ground, — if they had an officer that would _listen_ to them — they might be able to actually make a difference in the outcomes of skirmish. 

Wynn’s nod was as much a sign to Brad as it was to Fick. The relief was almost a physical cascade of tension from Brad’s shoulders. 

“Yeah, that works Brad, but only if you don’t let emotions take over as you assess the situation.” Fick turned, not giving the matter any more consideration, as if unaware of what Brad had risked to speak up. 

_Don’t let emotions take over._

It was good advice. 

Brad should have probably applied it to more than just life-or-death combat.

* * *

** Nate **

It was the little things that made Nate wonder. From someone else, it might be chance, but Nate got the impression that Brad chose to leave as little to chance as possible. 

Brad’s foot rested against Nate’s, which was the most significant thing that happened in the briefing. The information provided turned out to be mostly pointless: weather updates, more non-news from the UN, and the same updates from the BBC as the day before, just with extra tension. The plastic chairs were crammed close together, so the fact that Brad was one row back and had extended his legs until they were underneath Nate’s chair could just be due to his height. The solid presence of Brad’s boot against his own was somewhere between grounding and annoying. Neither of them acknowledged the touch, but then again, neither moved. The first thing that came to Nate’s mind was impossible. 

It was definitely not flirting. 

Nate was assured of this. 

It _couldn’t_ be.

* * *

** Brad **

He’d started listening in anticipation of the soft-spoken “Brad,” that indicated he should stay behind after team leader briefings. 

It was almost a connection that bridged the gap between officer and enlisted. Brad had rarely met someone he considered immediately as a potential equal. He tolerated his colleagues; he had enlisted friends that looked up to him. 

Fick… Fick was something else entirely. 

It made the inevitable rebukes cut deeper when Brad crossed that invisible line. 

They burned. 

It was the betrayal of that sense of friendship — no, not even a betrayal. It was a sharp-edged reminder that between their respective ranks _friendship_ itself could not exist. It wasn’t that Brad didn’t see the reasons behind it — chain of command and all — but the casual destruction of their connection seemed unnecessarily cruel. Even if Fick was absolutely, completely, by-the-book correct with his firmly drawn boundaries.

And while he could brush off a lot of things, Brad couldn’t just let Fick’s sharp-tongued, matter-of-fact scoldings go. 

He’d managed to pack away the grudge, although the LT’s comments remained etched into his mind. But they weren’t on the move for very long before they were waiting, and waiting again, and waiting some more. There was nothing else to do but think when he was lying in his ranger grave as their battalion approached the LOD. Well. Little else to do. 

Brad’s sleep-deprived brain crossed wires. That was really all there was to it. 

There, in his private thoughts, he paid back Fick for the quiet humiliation, trying to stamp out the flare of embarrassment that smoldered beneath Brad’s cool exterior. 

It was delicious to think of feeding the words back to Nate. “Personal feelings, sir,” he imagined whispering in Nate’s ear as he bent the LT over the hood of the Humvee. He was frustrated at his own attraction. Frustrated by the many, many lines he wanted to cross. Afterwards, he told himself that the fantasy was just about power, just about control. 

It was most definitely not about Fick himself.


	2. Chapter 2

** Brad **

The line of Iraqi men slowly shuffled down the railway tracks, away from them. A grave silence descended on the Humvees. Everyone let the truth of the situation filter in, and did what they needed to to move forward.

“What’s a little ignoring of the Geneva conventions between friends?” Ray never did know when to hold his tongue. “Now it’s gotta be all, oh, ‘we were just following orders’, and where have I heard _that_ one before?” The words weren’t nearly as under his breath as he thought they were. 

Brad froze. He saw Fick flinch, saw the jump of the muscle at the side of his jaw that wasn’t quite hidden by his chin strap. Brad could see the way Fick crumbled a little at the edges. Brad sympathized. It was a shitty situation, and one he was only slightly removed from through the chain of command. 

“But that is A-Okay, right? Because we’re bound for bigger and better things, hold onto your nutsacks, we’ve gotta get back into rushhour on the good ol’ MSR traffic jam. Gotta hurry up and wait in line again. Gawd-damn.”

Fick turned and walked stiffly away while Brad attempted to unfuck the situation. 

Brad shoved away his own feelings. This kind of talk was dangerous, too close to the truth. “Ray, keep in mind that if we were ordered to stay you’d be bitching about groping men and then the LT’d be shitcanned for not following orders and then we’d be oscar mike anyway. Shut the fuck up.”

Ray turned carefully back to the steering wheel. 

Gunny Wynn remained behind for a few heartbeats. He leaned against Brad’s door. “Everyone has to draw their own lines,” he said. “No one’s happy with the decision. But this is war. We’re better suited elsewhere.” 

Brad understood. Brad held out his open container of dip through the window, a silent apology for his RTO’s words.

Wynn took a pinch of the peace offering, nodded at Brad. His other hand touched Brad’s shoulder briefly, and then he too was gone. Brad offered the dip to Ray, who shook his head. Brad would be paying for his words. Annoyance settled in his gut, made worse because he agreed with Ray. Brad turned, catching another of his Lieutenant’s haunted looks as they mounted up. 

If Fick had been one of the enlisted men on his team, he’d have been worried. He trusted Wynn though. If anyone could help Fick keep this from weighing on his conscience, it’d be the Gunny. 

Brad shoved the need to say something to Fick away, and hitched his gun up into position. The memory of Fick’s bleak resignation was one more thing that’d steady his resolve if they ever got cleared to engage those damned red diamonds.

* * *

Fick kept shifting the boundaries between them. He didn’t follow up that first rebuke with a general coolness. Brad wasn’t sure whether to take the late night chats as an apology or a sign that the reprimands meant absolutely nothing to Fick. Still, for the next little while, Brad used more caution in when he approached Fick, trying to settle into an advisory role. But outside of Nasiriyah, Brad thought that things changed. Maybe not a full reversal, but a tilt towards something different. 

Maybe he just wanted to believe that Fick also felt that there was something between them. 

Brad’s body was almost vibrating with expectation. Anticipation. The nearby firefight wasn’t theirs, they hadn’t been cleared hot, not yet, so he listened and watched, senses alive, charting the mortars falling closer to Alpha’s position. From there to the top of the hill wasn’t so far; overwatch wouldn’t do much good if they weren’t close enough to engage. 

His team was crouched on the hill, eying the battle below. Brad waited by the radio for a moment or two but no further orders came through his headset. They needed to be doing _something._ His frustration got the better of him. He didn’t want to call Fick out on it over the comms so he headed back to the command truck. Maybe they would be oscar mike in a moment, heading down to engage at Alpha’s side. Maybe that was why they hadn’t formed a defensive position. But his calls for updates had just been answered with a curt command to hold. 

It wasn’t good enough. 

The lieutenant glanced over as Brad approached, and Brad felt the familiar flare of heat triggered by the brief eye-contact. He tamped it down, not sparing it a second thought. It wasn’t the time or place. Unfortunately, policing his physical reaction meant that he spoke without thinking.

“Sir, how long do we have to sit up here with our nuts out getting shot at before RCT One goes into the town?”

Brad tugged at a frayed edge of their professional relationship with the words. He knew it was too close to how he’d talk to another enlisted man, despite tacking a ‘sir’ to the front. Thoughts like this were something he should grumble to Ray before he left his victor’s shadow. Maybe it was pure perversity that made him seek out the LT, setting it into a casual test of their bond. 

He pushed at boundaries. He couldn’t help but push at the LT. There was a faint edge of deniability — he was just trying to get a sitrep, but they both likely knew better. Fick was as on-edge as the rest of his team, maybe more so. 

The expected reprimand didn’t come.

Fick smiled. Fick knew him too, knew his motivations, and those clear green eyes saw right through Brad. 

For a moment, the pounding of the mortars replaces his heartbeat. Fick’s grin was brighter than it had any reason to be out here, and he saw a kindred spirit in it before Fick replied, answering in the same playful tone. “Brad, we sit here with our nuts exposed, but when RCT One assaults over the bridge and we go in behind to get their casualties, we get our nuts blown completely off.”

There was a fierce flood of triumph at that answer. Brad smiled, despite the grim prediction. 

Line drawn, and seen. Brad wasn’t reprimanded for his tone or impropriety. He settled a little more into his role. Fick was one of them.

* * *

After their new orders, Brad pushed again. “True sir, if we had enough batteries to power our night optics.” 

He could hear his own tone and hated it. All he could blame was sleep deprivation and the knowledge that there was an easy fix for this situation that they just weren’t getting. 

Fick’s words were short and relentlessly professional. “We turn everything on when we move.” He brushed Brad’s shoulder again, the touch softening the mild reproof. 

No batteries. The memory of Fick’s hand on his shoulder was almost a decent trade, but it wouldn’t keep them alive if there was an ambush they couldn’t see. Brad settled back into the passenger seat, wrestling his emotions back under control. He needed to focus. Fick couldn’t be a part of any mental balance.

* * *

Another shoulder touch. That and the praise — _glad you’re my team leader_ — burned bright in his memory. Brad kept the area around his side of the car painstakingly arranged, but he still took a few moments to let being alive sink in as he shifted the grenades slightly, tossing unopened packets of old MREs back into the ratfuck bag. Might as well have one nice moment to remember before the adrenaline narrowed his world to his scope and his trigger. Maybe this town would be as silent as Nasiriyah. Maybe not. Beside him, Ray tightened his gloves. 

Oscar mike.

_You can’t live in the past._ There was a whole village that only existed in the past tense. Innocent lives. Fick again, had a much clearer idea of where the boundary of their teasing friendship sat. Like he said, Brad needed to snap to. He’d gone too far. It was unrealistic to expect Fick to maintain a friendly demeanor. Just because Brad had caught glimpses of the man beyond the rank didn’t mean that Fick would shrug off his duties. Hell, part of Brad probably respected him more for that. Just because Brad had an overactive imagination didn’t mean that the chain of command would change, didn’t mean that Fick would actually remain friendly with an enlisted marine. All the jokes and casual camaraderie — extended and answered — had been unique occasions, maybe brought on by the immediacy of nearby combat. Nothing he could count on. 

It was Lovell’s posture that caught Brad’s eye at first. Brad set a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “Punch out to that concrete barricade. I’ll be there in a moment.” Ray would keep an eye on Trombley, who was setting up his SAW on the ground, scowling at the sprawling buildings of Ar Rifa. The concrete wasn’t as much protection as Brad would have liked but it was better than nothing. 

“Any word on the stop?” he approached Lovell, standing close so he could talk in a low voice. The gunfire was sporadic at the moment, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t pick up once other fighters knew where they were. 

Lovell raised his eyebrows and shook his head. The disbelief on his face was obvious. Something had happened back at command. 

Brad felt his heart drop, fearing the worst.

His team shifted restlessly. No one had called in a target yet. Lovell paused at Brad’s vehicle, gesturing him in close.

“What happened, Steve?” Brad asked, keeping his voice low. 

“We might lose the LT,” Lovell said bleakly. 

Brad’s attention snapped to Lovell immediately. “What?”

“He just stopped Encino Man from killing all of us. I just had to explain ‘danger close’ to a captain. Encino Man went ahead with a call for arty 200 m away.”

Brad’s eyes widened slightly. He felt a prickle at the back of his neck and tried to keep from scanning the skies. “…and the LT…?”

“Fick stepped in. Fuck. If he gets done for insubordination…” 

“Fucktard had the wrong grid zone designators,” the Doc added under his breath as he stalked past. “The LT didn’t need to waste his breathe on that idiot.” 

Brad stood up a little straighter. He glanced over towards Kocher, missing his tight-knit team from Afghanistan, where things had made sense and they hadn’t needed to deal with shit like this. 

“Fuck me,” Brad murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Command’ll try,” Lovell said grimly. 

Brad settled in beside Ray, scanning the sides of the buildings nearest them. Windows and rooftops. The occasional shots had to be coming from somewhere.

Fuck, this was a mess. The sparsity of targets left him with too much time to worry. Fick needed to know that Brad would have his back. Losing the LT would be the sort of ridiculous insanity that was becoming increasingly familiar. 

They traded occasional fire, only taking out a few targets as the LAVs rolled further up the road behind them. 

It was a visceral relief when Fick came to crouch beside him, green eyes looking over Brad’s team. The LT was still around, despite his actions. That had to be a good sign. He hadn’t been immediately removed. 

Brad needed him to know: “Sir, your leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in.” It was a release of a different kind, to finally say it, even if the words got glossed over, lost in the rest of their interactions. 

The ongoing rumble of the LAVs behind him gave him an easy topic to pivot to, before his emotions had the chance to take over any further. He needed to keep them in check. This was professional. 

Only professional.

* * *

Brad didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even after Godfather relented and dispatched one of Alpha’s platoons with the boy to receive medical attention. 

Gunny and Fick let his team know of the platoon-wide inquiry, and gave the lecture they needed to. Brad kept his mask in place, nodding dutifully where he needed to, saying the words that were required. Trombley’s hand on the trigger, but his mistaken call. If he’d told Trombley to be sure of what the shepherds were carrying, they might have avoided all this. Maybe the inquiry wouldn’t have dropped down so heavily onto the platoon. He had to live with his own part in this one. 

It was a faint hope that he’d be sheltered in turn. 

He didn’t bet on any officers actually owning up to the mistake. _Everyone was declared hostile. You were told to fire on anyone in the AO._ Preceding the lecture with an acknowledgment of that fact would have changed everything. 

But Fick didn’t. 

Even though he’d expected it, he hadn’t been aware of just how much hope he had held onto that Fick would be different. 

Brad wasn’t one to chafe from hurt feelings. He swallowed them, packed them away where their sharp edges couldn’t cut him. 

Theoretically, Brad could sympathize with being pulled in two different directions. But here, where they needed a solid presence to stand between them and command, it wasn’t enough. This time, he and Fick were definitely on opposite sides of a line. 

So. Movement was good. One foot in front of the other. Not thinking.

* * *

** Nate **

Nate ensured the paperwork was indeed in the required triplicate. Sand got between the pages, talcum fine but still gritty. He had grown to hate it. He couldn’t remember what it was like to blink without pain.

He scowled at the write-up. Of course they couldn’t acknowledge that they’d set a free-fire zone, not in light of the airfield being abandoned. That had been neatly swept under a rug. 

It would have been far worse if Hasser’s MK-19 hadn’t jammed. Stupid coincidences were having more of an effect than his careful planning out here. He hated it.

“You’re losing the daylight,” Wynn observed, slowly chewing a dry cracker. 

Nate looked up. The stress gathered in his chest, made it hard to breathe. 

Wynn studied him placidly. 

Nate bristled. “I’m not a new recruit,” he said, letting the edge seep into his voice. 

“Then you know how important it is to rest when you can.”

Nate turned back to the sheets in front of him. He needed this done and out of the way. But Wynn was right, and it was getting hard to see. Nate tucked the pen back into his vest. 

“I’ll take first watch,” he said, perversely, just to rebel against Wynn’s suggestion for sleep.

* * *

** Brad **

When Brad returned to take his turn at watch, Fick was standing on the berm, staring out at him through the darkness. Brad wondered how long he had been watching. Brad walked past him silently, acknowledging him only by stepping around him rather than hitting him with his shoulder. He didn’t trust himself to say anything. 

He fell asleep exactly one time that night. His dreams were full of gut wounds and gore, his own hands bloody as he tried to keep the kid alive, his own guilt twisting the situation. After that, he spent the night walking or on watch, trying to outpace the exhaustion.

* * *

The first day on low rations was always the worst, which added to Brad’s general moodiness. The hunger started to gnaw at his gut, and he alternated water and dip, almost wishing for a real cigarette just for something to do with his mouth as he cleaned the dust out of his M4 in a futile exercise that ate away the time. He slept fitfully for a few shifts, and stared out at the town, at the desert scrub around them, keeping watch on insects and tiny tornadoes of dust. For the last two hours, nothing had moved in his scope but flies. 

When he wasn’t on watch, it was harder to escape interactions he didn’t want. When there was no more sabka to scrape off his vehicle, it was Gunny Wynn who sat with him, taking Rudy’s place; there was nothing to do to escape.

Brad listened with half an ear as Gunny Wynn reassured him that the inquiry was mostly to cover their asses later. He knew that. The USMC could say that they looked into it and everything had been found to be in order. Alpha’s platoon had returned, and had passed word on that the kids were in good hands. They hadn’t died during the journey. 

Brad nodded when he was expected to. 

It was all he felt he could do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Brad**

Brad lay on his back in his grave. The clouds obscured the stars. He wouldn’t be surprised if it started to rain. It was just that sort of night.

He heard footsteps approach. It wasn’t time for him to take watch, so he didn’t bother moving. He also didn’t bother pretending to be asleep. The three other team leaders — Lovell and Poke and Pappy — appeared over the edge of his hole. 

“Hey Brad,” Lovell said, voice low. “We’re going to go let the LT know we have his back.”

Brad heard the words, but they didn’t really sink in. Nothing today really had. The lieutenant knew where they stood. Or where they _had_ stood, before his team had potentially killed two civilian children.

Pappy leaned down and clapped a hand on Brad’s shoulder. It had been a day of that. Attempts at comfort. “Aiight. Get some rest. He’ll know you’re with us in spirit.”

Brad should appreciate it. 

Brad probably should have been on his feet, going with them for solidarity. 

He didn’t feel anything. 

The three other sergeants left his grave.

Sometime, much later, it did start to rain.

* * *

** Nate **

When Nate cooled off, he climbed back up the berm to sit with Mike again. Mike was silent for a few moments. 

“The three wise men were missing one of their buddies,” he remarked. 

Nate scowled, knowing exactly who Mike was referring too. “Brad knows better than to get involved,” he lied. Brad had been a full two days ahead of Lovell, Patrick, and Espera. Nate flipped down his NVGs and stared at the desert, in a foul mood. All his attempts to keep his men safe and in the clear felt like they were backfiring. There were consequences he hadn’t seen coming. 

“Uh-huh,” Mike drawled, in that way that meant he knew Nate was full of shit but wasn’t going to push it any farther. 

Brad had no delay when he thought he knew what was right. Because it had been _Brad,_ Nate had been off-balance. He’d had two days to kick himself for not setting Brad straight, for not telling Brad off like he had the other team leaders. His sharp words to them had been a reminder of what he _hadn’t_ said to Brad. He didn’t really want to think about it. 

“You’re doing a good thing, keeping this shit off them,” Mike said, dropping his own night vision into place. 

Nate tensed his jaw. He wanted to believe that. He really did.

* * *

** Brad  **

Despite the shitstorm it would bring to their sister platoon, Brad felt better after the incident with the mistaken armor. He felt more in control, competent again. It was a reminder that within this whole tangled fuck-up, he actually knew what he was doing. 

He ate his rations slowly and cleaned sand out of the Humvee’s guts with Walt and Ray while Trombley wrote out reports under Wynn’s gentle supervision.

He knew he was _really_ feeling better when he started searching out Fick again and a burning hollow didn’t flare in his chest. The fact that Fick had passed on the orders and then balked when they were followed, that was something that Brad had to deal with going forwards. But if the guilt and anger were lifting… that was something. 

Fick looked harried, despite the bit of respite they’d been given. He spent most of the day going between H & S company and working at a thrown-together office under cammie netting, intent on his laptop and a stack of papers. Brad didn’t envy him. 

As TL, he was given a copy of Fick’s response to the inquiry later that night. He read the carefully selected words, and realized that Fick was protecting them yet again. Everything that he hadn’t said to them directly was in there. Fick’s intelligence and determination radiated from the concise descriptions. 

Something in Brad started to warm again.

* * *

Brad reclined on the Humvee. Under the tented netting, the heat was a few degrees below intolerable, and the vehicle’s height gave him a better perspective. Perversely, the wind had died down, leaving them sweltering without the relief of even a hot breeze. Brad turned his head slightly, following the loping stride of the LT as Fick moved between groups, offering a hand or quick word, reorganizing their dwindling supplies. 

Lieutenant Fick didn’t seem to have the same needs as the rest of them. Brad was watching. 

Brad cleaned his M4 again, for something to do with his hands. It was strange to have a full few days of waiting. The repetitive motions nudged the idea of something else into his mind. When his M4 was as clean as the day he was issued it, he slung it back around his shoulder and rummaged through his pack. The porn stash had unfortunately become group property at some point. He liked knowing that he had the new issues, still pristine in their plastic bags, hidden with the treats from home. It was a sort of soft edging to make himself wait to reveal them. Today, he settled for what had become group property. The magazine he grabbed had crumpled edges and a few torn-out pages, but it’d be enough. Marines made do. 

The walk up and over the berm didn’t put nearly enough space between him and his team, but he’d take what he could get. Privacy came at too high a cost, they had all lost most of their inhibitions long ago. It was the only way to get by out here. 

The setting sun cast long shadows in front of him as he flipped through the grimy pages.

Brad’s thoughts remained stuck in Iraq though, lingering somewhere they weren’t supposed to be, rather than on the voluptuous lady on page seven. He’d never seen Fick head off with a porn rag. Was it just one more division the officer was setting in place? Holding himself to the higher standard of not jacking off?

He wondered if anyone had asked him that. ‘Hey, LT, do you jack off in the field?’ It was a toss up whether he’d get a derisive look or a flippant answer. 

Hi brain stalled on possibilities for a teasing answer. He couldn’t even game out a reply. His mind just shorted out. 

The idea of the LT’s contempt stuck — disappointment that Brad would stoop to asking something like that. That was probably the answer he’d get. Fick probably looked down on them needing to do this. He’d probably hold himself to a high standard and this would absolutely be beneath him. 

Brad didn’t need the open mag in the end. When he got a hand around himself he imagined that scornful look on the LT’s face Brad came harder than he had in recent memory. 

He sat there for a moment, letting the thought drift away. It was always the ones that seemed so innocent that were rebels in the sack. There was something to that catholic school girl trope, after all. Maybe former altar boys had the same sort of kinky tendencies. Or maybe the reporter had just made that up; teasing them with an absurd piece of fiction about Fick’s past. 

Either way, this had to be the last time he thought about it.

* * *

Brad was normally one to sit with a grudge, but this time, he magnanimously reached out first, offering an olive branch of dry sarcasm. 

“I’m in awe.” 

He expected a smile at least, some hint of their shared experience of the worst speech he’d ever heard. Instead, Fick walked away without a word. 

He clenched his teeth. He told himself that it was the shifting boundaries that really got under his skin.

If their ‘relationship’ would just settle on one or the other — professional distance or friendship — it would be simple to deal with. There was a shifting line between the two of them that threw him off at times when he thought his footing was secure. 

Brad hated being off-balance. 

Brad followed Fick’s steps away with his eyes, feeling the snub burn deep within his chest. He made sure his face remained blank. 

He headed back to his victor, the scent of skittles lost somewhere under the seats cooking into the sweat and gun oil and making him feel faintly nauseous. Ray said something that Brad couldn’t hear over the muffling rage. Brad slammed his door shut and punched the power to the tracker, ignoring his RTO.

“What the fuck, Brad,” Ray complained. “Three days of R&R and you forget all your manners.”

Ray’s teasing reprimand was insignificant, sliding away easily. Unlike other things. “Shut the fuck up, Ray.”

Fick’s voice came over the radio and Brad turned to cover his sector, putting the annoyance and hurt and everything else from his mind. ‘Professional’ it was. He could do that. 

He didn’t know why this was affecting him so much. Brad felt like a door had slammed shut on his fingers, like he’d lost something as important as his gun hand, something he’d depended on just as much. Fick had stood with him when he needed a lieutenant to. That was all he could ask for from an officer. 

The moments of friendship were a false front, and the sooner he got that through his head, the better he’d be able to do his damned job.

* * *

Professional had worked in the live-fire after-action. Brad tried it again, pushing for the things he knew would keep them alive — foot patrols, reconnaissance. Fick shot them all down, like he’d had unprotected verbal intercourse with the Captain and Encino Man’s hard-on for stupidity was contagious. ‘Aggressiveness’ indeed. 

This was going to be the day they were lit up by friendly fire, 23 casualties of pride and stupidity. No thermals. 

“Do you use AA batteries in any of your recording equipment? Cameras? Anything non-essential?” He’d actually stooped to asking the reporter for help. Jesus-fucking-Christ they were screwed. 

Brad shifted things around, making sure ammo was in place for his whole team. It had been 15 mikes. What did they have now? Ten? Eight? He swallowed his fear, his worries, focusing on what he could do. Right now that was laying out cartridges and shifting containers of belts, trying to find extra AA batteries for the ‘hunting’ they would be doing, if by some miracle they made it past the bridge. 

Fick was bending further under pressure.

It might get them all killed. 

The trouble was that if Fick didn’t bend; he’d be the one to break.

* * *

Ray was out of the Humvee, and Brad suddenly had to plan for what would happen if his RTO got shot outside the vehicle. He’d send Trombley to retrieve him, slip into the driver’s seat, and go. He covered his sector, anxiously trying to hear past the explosions. 

He had other things to focus on. 

RPG neutralized.

AK-47 neutralized. 

Ray back in his seat, the door slammed shut.

A brief moment of relief. 

The victor still couldn’t move; they were still penned in. 

Fuck.

He swung his M4 around, tracking the critical RPGs and the men in the tall grass. There were so many of them. 

The hammer of bullets against the armor of the Humvee and the panic on the radio made sound a useless sense in the ambush. 

Somehow, ‘the LT’s foot mobile!’ cut through the chaos. 

Fuck. 

Not Fick too. 

Brad didn’t stop firing. The words were far enough away that they weren’t part of his immediate surroundings. It didn’t stop an icy fear from crystallizing along his spine. 

The LT had cut through the radio chaos though, and when team one Bravo peeled, Ray had his pedal against the floor, a frantic lurch shuddering through the victor. Brad kept shooting, jamming a new cartridge into place.

* * *

After they sent Pappy out, they waited, listening to the continued bombardment at the bridge. The stimulants chewed through Brad’s system. It wasn’t enough to make him tremble, but he felt them. There’d be no going back to sleep. Everyone was on edge, but there was no time to wind down, not when they’d be rolling back through at some undetermined time point.

He was irrationally pissed at Walt and Ray for not recognizing a potential ambush site earlier, and he left his team cleaning the brass out of the vehicle. 

_Don’t let emotions take over._

He was in trouble.

It was far too late for that.

* * *

They sat in their vehicle for another hour ready to deploy again. Two hours. There was no sign the LAVs had made a difference; the bushmasters continued to fire, the popping a distant comfort. 

Another hour, and everyone was starting to get restless. The need to be constantly ready faded but the Ripped Fuel still roiled through Brad’s veins.

Brad left his victor cautiously. He was trapped between keeping close to the Humvee and needing to move. Others were in the same boat, he caught sight of Wynn on a nearby rise. Still within an easy bolt to the Humvees, but far enough away to get a false sense of distance. 

He sat with Wynn, trying to get a handle on his churning emotions. 

“If he’d sent us out as a foot patrol, we would have been heroes.” Brad said bleakly, sitting beside Gunny. “We could have gotten them all before they knew we were there. Turned the ambush around on them.”

Gunny Wynn looked over at him, seemingly unshakable. “If wishes were horses,” he said lightly. 

Brad could see it play out. Creeping through the grass. The half-remembered buildings that they could have used as cover, turning the whole ambush against the unskilled jihadists. 

“Might have gotten Godfather his damned full bird,” Brad muttered. 

“Mm hmm,” Wynn drawled. He raised an eyebrow. “Is that out of your system now, Sergeant?”

Brad nodded with the slow realization of what he’d been saying and to whom. Goddamned Ripped Fuel. He needed to get himself squared away. 

Wynn looked around once, then lowered his voice. “Chain of command is on Nate’s ass, Brad. They’re pissed about Ar Rifa, still talking about possible action against him. He’s walking a thin line.”

There was a moment where it was strange to think of Fick as Nate, a subtle surge of jealousy that Wynn had earned that privilege at some point.

“Why didn’t you step in?” Brad asked, careful to keep his tone respectful. He actually wanted to know.

Wynn glanced over at Brad. There was a patience in his manner that seemed to transcend the situation. 

“You’ll be in my shoes soon enough,” he said. “You’ll have to deal with cherry LTs and bloodthirsty Captains and absolutely everything in between. I still don’t see everything. We can’t question orders. You know that, I know that. We don’t think, we do. If the LT says we need to be on that bridge, we need to be on that bridge. We make it happen. If he asks us how best to accomplish the task, we can ask for maps and foot patrols. But when he gives an order, we move. And sometimes, the orders are a ball of shit that would take him out if he tried to stop it. If he rolls with this one, he might be able to block something else from killing us all.”

Brad fought against the words the Ripped Fuel kept trying to bring to the surface. He set his jaw against them, forcing himself to just nod instead of insisting that Fick was better than that. Too many other things were bundled along with that, his unrealistic expectations and those damned ‘personal feelings’ that he needed to keep buried. 

“What’s your feelings on that, Gunny? Will we lose our platoon commander?”

Wynn’s impeccable stillness reminded Brad that Wynn had done tours as a sniper. “The LT and I can address any issues the Captain has with our platoon.” Brad could practically hear the line being drawn: that was decisively not his concern. “Walk it off, Sergeant. Be ready to hop to.” 

The conversation was over. 

Brad nodded, and walked back to his victor.

* * *

The dawn broke and they were still waiting on the field. 

The officers had been called to command, and Brad leaned on his vehicle, keeping a cautious eye in that direction. 

Eventually, Fick and Wynn reappeared, heading directly for them. Fick was carrying rolled sheets of draft paper, which he spread on the hood of Brad’s victor. 

“There’s another bridge.” Fick didn’t look Brad in the eye.

Fick’s maps, maps that they didn’t have yesterday, when they might have been helpful, clearly showed the bridge. Another way they could have avoided the ambush. 

Brad’s vision nearly went red. Of course there was. He quelled the murderous rage only by sheer force of will. “Thank you, sir. We can take it from here.”

He needed Fick to be far away while he digested this fact. 

He stared at the maps. 

He’d stared at maps of the Euphrates bridge for six weeks. Six weeks of planning and counter planning, of coming up with scenarios and back-up plans, running through training exercises, all for a bridge they’d never seen. A bridge they’d never gotten within fifty klicks of. 

And now _this_ bridge. If they’d gotten the map one hour before the word to leave, they could have _glanced_ at it and seen a clear opportunity. It was right there. 

Brad spat his tobacco. 

Everyone was silent. 

Breathe. 

In. 

Out. 

He shoved the anger down again. One more useless thing out here. “Right, gents.” 

Pappy might still be with them. Stafford wouldn’t have a bandage around his leg. 

For want of a map. For want of a foot patrol. 

It could have been worse, he told himself. Fick had kept it from being worse.

Focus.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

** Brad **

A quiet “Brad,” welcoming him to stand by the back of Fick’s victor when he went to pass by,. As if the bridge incident hadn’t occurred, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they talked about the road blocks they’d been assigned to. 

From Brad’s point of view, nothing had changed except the location. He tried to stay as cool as his damned nickname. He wasn’t sure if it was an apology or a return to more normal interactions. He swallowed his emotions and pinned his mind to the task at hand.

* * *

Brad’s own command failed; Walt broke under the stress. Brad’s protest, his insistence that they try the smoke; all for nothing. 

There wasn’t long enough to dwell on it, not at all, before he was bundling his team back into the vehicle. One more thing to try to forget. He’d do better next time. 

Oscar mike.

* * *

Brad could see that the turmoil that came with not receiving intelligent orders. It weighed on Fick. Brad and the enlisted men, they were used to it. Fick suffered. 

He could see that this time.

Brad’s focus should have been on the night recon. The majority of it was; but it was hard to block everything else out when his lieutenant was at his side on the hill.

The reporter moved off to the next cluster of marines, leaving Brad and Fick to their thoughts. 

Brad expected silence, thinking that they’d said all there was to say before Fick had turned off his headset, but Fick surprised him. 

“You know, three nights ago I was demanding to be allowed to send out night patrols.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. He settled in, letting Fick talk as Brad focused on the edge of a building, finding a window. Nothing moved in Brad’s field of view. His starlight scope fritzed out, the amplified scene going momentarily dark as the battery flickered through its last electrons. 

“Different situations call for different responses. Sir,” Brad said, when Fick didn’t continue.

Brad considered patrols back in Baghdad just as pointless. They could both see what would really help — staying in one place. Actually delivering things they promised. 

Brad swallowed the frustration as his scope cut out with a bleak finality. He searched his pockets, replacing the battery efficiently, and flicking it back on, mentally thanking the reporter’s smiling blonde girlfriend. 

“If they were using this as a staging area, it’s not seeing a lot of activity tonight,” Brad commented. “They could be inside, asleep. Would be nice to have thermals to be sure.”

Brad could practically feel Fick’s frustration at his side. He kept talking. No use in dwelling on what they didn’t have, even if he couldn’t help but remind Fick of what they could be. 

“Lot of entrances and exits down there. Not a lot of marked paths, lots of space between buildings. No vehicles in the immediate area.”

It wasn’t not important what he was saying. He would have happily done the recon silently. But there wasn’t a need to. 

“I trust you,” Fick said. He shifted a little, laying his hand on Brad’s shoulder. Not as close as if he’d been a sniper with his spotter, but this felt right. Comfortable.

Brad smiled. “It’s nice to have a legit mission, sir.” Fick’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and then Fick was standing up, heading back to the command vehicle and leaving Brad to his night recon.

His attention wanted to follow Fick, but he forced it to stay on the abandoned amusement park below, taking in all the details. He mentally mapped out the routes they could take, possible ambush locations, and kept watch for any signs of activity. 

He had a job to do. 

Any other feelings were secondary.

* * *

The ordnance haunted him. 

There have been so many things he had to let go. He was at his limit. He bought a fifth of the gin. Trombley and the Reporter chattered away at either side of him as he drank. 

Fick joined him at some point later, when reality had lost its sharp edges. 

“You understand, don’t you?” 

Brad narrowed his eyes. “Absolutely, sir.” His voice could have iced the room over. 

“I want to get you all home. I’m not going to be the one explaining to your family that I lost you over bomb removal.”

“Respectfully, sir, who’s going to comfort the parents when their children die when the ordnance finally explodes?”

Fick let him speak patiently, then countered, “The coordinates have been marked down, Brad. Teams properly trained in removal will see that it happens. I’m assured of this.”

The words weren’t as reassuring as Fick likely assumed they would be. Brad had seen just how often the assurances Fick got were lies. 

“Two thousand pounds of ordnance are still being removed each year from Germany, sir.” Brad said dryly. “How many more will this war add to the world?”

Fick stood next to him, looking down at the city. “Saddam could have avoided this,” he reminded Brad. “This isn’t our fault.”

It wouldn’t matter to the children in that garden. 

Whatever let Fick sleep at night, though. Brad held his tongue, discontent could never travel upwards in the chain of command. “Of course, sir.” Frosty politeness was his only armor when it came to officers. 

Fick shifted slightly. He brushed the back of his knuckles across Brad’s hand. 

The unexpected sensation of skin on skin surprised him, shook him loose from his train of thought. The resentment dissipated as the touch lingered, a heartbeat longer than it would have if it had truly been accidental. With the touch, he felt the concern, the worry, the fear: everything that Fick couldn’t show.

For one shining moment, he wondered if Fick felt anything near what he felt. All the confusion; all the hope; all the potential between them. 

Brad didn’t swing around to look at Fick. He carefully kept his gaze on the fence that ringed the soccer stadium. 

It wasn’t the touch itself, not exactly. 

It was the understanding behind it. The line between them had been redrawn, a little ways over from where it had been. 

Brad had always accepted that his sexuality would be a sacrifice subsumed by the corps. It had been a given. He’d get to do what he wanted to do, just not whom. 

There might be no chance that Fick meant what Brad was taking as an implication. It was a touch of his hand, after all. It wasn’t a declaration of love, or even a hurried handjob between frustrated bros.

It could be an accident. Brad just wanted it to be intentional. 

There had been enough of basing his hopes and expectations on Fick, though. 

Brad made a decision there in that soccer field. 

Whatever it took, he’d stand by Fick. No matter what Fick wanted from him. Enough with the guessing, enough with playing hot or cold, enough with trying to figure out if he’d get a playful reply or a sharp rebuke when he pushed. He’d be at Fick’s side. However Fick wanted that to look. 

Brad returned the touch, keeping his eyes carefully away. He wasn’t going to be able to hold onto his calm if he looked at Fick, if he saw even a hint of what he himself felt on Fick’s face. The simple touch was enough to signal that it had been received and understood. And If he had misinterpreted, it could be brushed aside as nothing, just happenstance. It was all he could do out here. 

Brad had made his choice.

It would be up to Fick to decide just how far that went. 

And Brad? Brad would try not to push. 

_Don’t let emotions take over._


	5. Chapter 5

** Nate **

At tactical assembly area Paige, Nate felt the divisions begin to fall into place again. 

Paige was, depressingly, more permanent than the tent camps at Mathilda, maybe a sign that they wouldn’t be heading back home soon after all. They moved into old Iraqi infrastructure, taking advantage of things that had been built before and supplementing the structures with tents and latrines. Their future was up in the air. There were rumors that they’d head back to Oceanside, but they were mumbled in the same breath as the possibility of staying and performing surveillance along the border, or going on patrol into Al Diwaniyah.

If the last three weeks had taught him anything, it was to be prepared for any of the rumors to be true, but not to get his hopes up. Nate wrote reports on carbon paper, pressing his pencil firmly into the stack of papers as he defended the decisions that kept his men alive.

* * *

Nate put in for field combat meritorious commissions for the men. Brad was a quick addition, heading the list. Nate made a point of listing Brad’s hands-on teaching, his quick reactions, and steadying presence on the comms as examples of where Brad had already been acting as a staff sergeant. He didn’t think he was exaggerating, but he’d run it by Mike before he showed anyone else. Mike would have his back, would help him course-correct if he was out of line.

PFC Christeson got a place on the list as well. No one should have to remain at an E2 level after enduring this hellish road trip, and he’d done admirably well, easily acting on par with the corporals. 

Those two end up approved. 

There were others he put in for commendations. Ray, for actions during the ambush. Patrick, for the same. Stafford. They all deserve more. The lack of fire fights was regrettable only when he was looking for specific examples of valor. He was so proud of all of them. With a few more battles, he might have been able to push the paperwork through, despite the various inquiries and investigations and fuck-ups. 

The captain didn’t see it the same way.

* * *

Back at Oceanside Nate would have called Brad to his office. Here, he didn’t have that option.

“Walk with me, Brad,” had to suffice, a nod of his head in the direction of the camp perimeter. They walked away, getting as close to a semblance of privacy as they could find at the outskirts of a camp where eighteen thousand men were gathered. The dusk had brought only a slight relief from the heavy heat. 

Mike stayed at Nate’s other shoulder, arm casually over his rifle, keeping pace but letting Nate take the lead. 

“We’ve recommended you for a combat meritorious promotion,” Nate said, not seeing the need to beat around the bush.

Brad was a marine. His steps didn’t falter. Maybe it wasn’t a surprise. Maybe he’d expected it. 

“Thank you, sir. Gunny.” Brad’s nods took both of them in. He sounded soft-spoken, respectful. There was a distance in his words. Nate found himself missing the easy camaraderie they’d shared while out in the field. He smoothed the thought from his mind, tried to ignore his regret. This distance was proper. It was what he should still be aiming for.

“It was approved. Godfather wants to do a promotion ceremony soon, for morale. I can’t offer you the choice of location or the option for privacy, but if you want to think about who you’d like to have do the pinning, I can make sure that happens.”

“If you and Gunny would, sir, I’d be honored.”

“There’s no pressure from us,” Nate said carefully, despite the satisfaction that curled in his chest like a cat in sunshine. “You can think it over.”

“I won’t change my mind, sir.”

Nate saw Mike nod out of the corner of his eye. If Mike thought Brad was settled, Nate wouldn’t protest further. 

“Of course. We’d be honored to.” Nate accepted Brad’s choice. “Congratulations, you deserve it.”

“Sorry your family can’t be here for this one, Brad,” Mike said, dropping back a pace to clasp a hand on Brad’s shoulder. 

Nate watched Brad, trying to read his expression. He could only tell that Brad’s lips tightened, that his eyes went to the horizon. He couldn’t parse the emotion behind it.

* * *

When they thought Nate was out of earshot, the platoon grumbled about assembling on the makeshift ‘parade deck’ of Camp Paige. Nate understood. The heat and flies were intense and unpleasant, making it yet another exercise in endurance.

Nate stood at attention, focusing his gaze above the mens’ heads as the captain read out the field commissions. 

Lilley had handed his video camera to someone in another platoon for the occasion. Nate hoped that the video recorded the joy that threatened to escape from Christeson’s face. Stafford was just as energetic. Beside Gunny Wynn they both looked like puppies. ‘His’ boys. The first combat meritorious promotion since Vietnam. He was so damned proud of them all. 

Stafford rapped something under his breath and gave Christeson a theatric punch before returning to formation. Gunny Wynn stepped back beside Nate, and Captain Schwetje started reading the next form. 

This time Brad came to a stop in front of them, standing carefully at attention. He was more restrained, the picture of utter discipline, and Nate fought a smile as the Captain droned on, holding the sheets of paper in front of him as he read haltingly. 

Schwetje eventually turned to Nate and Wynn, nodding. It was their cue. Wynn stepped forward first, pinning the new insignia to Brad’s left lapel. He punched him good-naturedly, teasing. A half-smile broke Brad’s stoic exterior. 

Nate had to fight a sudden tremor in his hands as he placed the pin on Brad’s right lapel. He was close enough to Brad that he could see the faint dusting of stubble on his face, close enough to be sharing the air that they breathed. Close enough to kiss. He gave a rather shaky smile and stepped back, lightly punching the pin into place with the typical showmanship. 

As if that machismo could cancel out his inner thoughts. 

He could tell that Brad was fighting to hold back a wider grin. The pride Nate felt was disproportional; a warmth over and above the desert heat. It smothered his chest, dulled the irritation at the Captain’s slow reading of the rest of the paper.

Maybe it wasn’t just pride, but pride was all he could allow himself.

* * *

When they transitioned back to Kuwait, the platoon had a tent to sleep in again and Nate had a plywood box. Junior Officer’s quarters. One more step apart. 

Nate even missed the damned MREs when he was shifted to the officer’s table in the chow tent. The atmosphere at the table had changed over the weeks of the invasion. McGraw exuded confidence after his reinstatement, but Patterson had a disappointed air that closely resonated with how Nate felt. Godfather ignored all of it. His presence imposed an uneasy truce at the chow table, with even Griego remaining subdued and deferential. 

As paperwork piled up, Nate tried to still make time for his team. He joined them for PT in the mornings, dragging himself from his rack regardless of the amount of sleep he did or did not get. Wynn was stationed with a few other senior NCOs nearby, separate from the canvas tent that Nate thought of as Bravo Two’s temporary barracks. At this point, Mike should be Nate’s sole point of contact for the platoon again, another step of distance between officers and grunts. As much as he appreciated Mike’s steady support and guidance, the distance from the team chafed. He hadn’t realized how much he’d enjoyed embedding with the team rather than coordinating movements from behind the lines. 

Every once in a while when Nate glanced up, he caught sight of Brad watching him and he wondered if the feeling was mutual.


	6. Chapter 6

** Nate **

The first time he let Brad kiss him, Brad tasted of homemade gin. 

Mike had left him to go talk with the gunnery sergeants of Alpha and Charlie companies. Most of the men were enjoying access to a few videos in the barracks tent, an old VHS hooked up to a monitor on a cart, the power cord snaking back out the tent. It reminded him of being back in grade school. The juxtaposition was jarring. The familiar moto music of Top Gun was in the background, nearly drowned out by the guys talking over the scenes. 

Brad had made some sort of snide remark — the ‘Iceman’ nickname was being thrown around in full force; Espera either mocking Brad or genuinely trying to compliment him, Nate couldn’t quite tell. 

Kenny Loggins belts out Playing with the Boys, and Nate had smirked to himself and turned to go before he had to listen to his platoon hoot and holler through the volleyball scene. 

As an officer, he didn’t get to relax with the platoon. He wasn’t sure what they had done to earn the afternoon off, but he didn’t want to mess with it, and he’d been bringing little but bad luck lately. He folded his soft cover between his fingers and made his way back towards the chow tent. 

He was aware of a shadow very quickly. He glanced to his side, expecting Mike to have returned, but it was Brad. Brad gestured with his chin, indicating a building that was exposed bricks and shelves. 

“Won’t they miss you?”

Brad gave his half smile. “Not for a while.”

Nate followed Brad to an unused corner, where a stack of shipping palettes had been unloaded. Somewhere, over the crumbling wall, were the shipping containers, frying in the heat and full sun. 

Nate stood very still, realizing they were alone. Realizing just what was in Brad’s expression. He’d taken a risk when he’d reached out to Brad those handful of days ago. He’d hoped — and yet maybe he’d thought that that was all they’d have. 

Nate didn’t dare to breathe as Brad drew closer.

Brad’s lips were hesitant. Nate wouldn’t have thought Brad would be tentative, but he hadn’t let himself think about this _at all._ The press of skin against skin was gentle. Nate could feel the edges of chapped skin catch as Brad shifted slightly, the feeling achingly foreign and something he’d wanted so badly. He thought at that moment that if Brad had pushed, if Brad had been more forceful he wouldn’t stopped him. He didn’t want to stop him. He let Brad kiss him, and he held himself under rigid control, not reacting. 

Brad seemed to be waiting for him to take control of this. But Nate couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Touching Brad’s hand had been as far as he’d been willing to go. He couldn’t do _this._

Not here. Not like this. Maybe not ever. 

He curled his hands into fists, his left hand briefly tangling in Brad’s fingers. He didn’t stop Brad, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond or deepen the kiss. This couldn’t be him. This couldn’t be what he did with his authority. 

Brad shifted away again, his clear eyes searching Nate’s face. Nate didn’t have the words at hand. He swallowed and gave a minute shake of his head. A hint of terror crept along his chest, growing dense like kudzu, threatening to suffocate him. 

He couldn’t do anything but stare. He wanted this — something like this — so badly. He wanted to grab Brad’s PT shirt and walk him back into the cinder block wall, pin him there with all the force he could muster, take what he realized he’d been thinking of for a while now. The rules had left him battered and unsure of anything, but this was one line he couldn’t cross. 

Brad nodded, slowly. Nate could practically see him closing off. Nate tried to put his regret into their silent communication. There was a light that dimmed in Brad’s eyes as he turned back to the door, but Nate was grateful that there wasn’t fear, that Brad at least trusted him to maintain his silence.

Nate licked his lips. He swallowed. “Sorry,” he mouthed, shaking his head. 

Nate watched Brad leave. 

Later, Nate told himself that he wouldn’t have let it happen if he hadn’t been recovering from sleep deprivation and the camp plague. He’d been drained of the energy to protest. He didn’t let himself admit how much he wanted exactly this. 

And he was pretty sure Brad wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for the gin, but maybe that wasn’t giving Brad enough credit. Brad preferred to leave nothing left to chance, after all. 

Only when the door clicked shut did Nate remember to start breathing again. He slid down the wall and gripped his head in his hands and wondered if command was right to question everything he had done. 

He would.

* * *

Back at Oceanside, with the paperwork and reports and endless training sessions, it should have been easy to keep the separation in place. Knowing that his feelings were returned, that there was the possibility of _something_ made it that much harder to ignore. The lack of immediate missions turned into a liability. It was that much easier for his mind to slip into ‘what ifs’, and that much harder to interact with any of the men. 

He couldn’t ask for what he wanted here, he realized. There was no point where it would be acceptable for him to lean in and whisper something to Brad. No time when it would be appropriate to ask for his opinion, to call him away from the platoon. 

He kept a tight smile and told himself he needed to get over his little crush. What they had between them wasn’t something that would last. It had just been physical, just a reaction to the stress and the trust and respect and perhaps even love he had for all his men. 

But he ached at night, and felt incredibly alone. He missed more than that one brief encounter. So much more. He’d found something rare in Brad; a kindred spirit.

* * *

Nate was still technically in charge of the platoon, but at Pendleton he was even more removed. He met the captain that was going to take over his platoon. The stranger that would return to Iraq with _his_ men. He missed being embedded with them, if he was honest. But the reports that he was getting suggested that the insurgency wouldn’t be a small thing. The IED encounters from the last few weeks were sounding closer to hell, something they’d need to deal with. It wasn’t something he was willing to do. He couldn’t force himself to take on that active duty, to order men to their deaths. He’d been lucky on his two tours, but luck always ran out. 

He made it down to one of the training sites. Technically, he was already off-duty, but he didn’t feel the need to announce it, staying in uniform and delaying his return to an empty apartment. 

It was almost like old times. The platoon was returning from some sort of simulated mission, disassembling and cleaning weapons in the shade of a handful of cinderblock outbuildings. 

“I hear they’re actually building mock-cities in the desert now,” Brad said, standing almost too close to Nate’s shoulder. “Not a bad idea for training. Maybe a year too late, but that’s not bad, considering.”

The same energy that crackled through the air in Iraq was still there. Nate swallowed. He was still sleeping poorly, so maybe that was a part of it. Maybe it was just the sleep deprivation that made him want to lean in to Brad for support. Brad’s unshaking confidence offered a quiet shelter, but it was one he couldn’t allow himself to indulge in. 

Nate nodded once. He’d seen the PowerPoints cross his desk, at least, had signed off on various requisitions for his team. An ironic smile pulled at the side of his mouth. “I imagine they’re still drownproofing recruits though. Good call for the desert.”

Brad snorted. “Rumor has it that some of them even get off on it, sir.”

Despite his best effort, a smile pulled at the corners of Nate’s lips. He didn’t bother with a warning. If anyone in command was within earshot Brad would have kept himself in line. Nate trusted that. “Brad, it may concern some people to hear of your preoccupation with the fetishes of officers.” 

“Understood, sir. Those ‘people’ will be happy to hear that there are very few officers who’s fetishes I actually care about.” Brad exuded the same sort of quiet solidarity as before. Nate hadn’t known how much he needed reassurance that Brad hadn’t changed. Then the words hit him. 

Very few. 

Nate smiled, looking away. 

He’d missed the banter, even when he was at a loss to return it.

* * *

The worst nightmares were when Nate dreamed of bring hit outside of Muwaffiqiya. He stepped out of his vehicle and instead of running to the front of the line of vehicles, excruciating pain shot through his legs. He was zipped in the ankles. He fell. The pain was excruciating but it wasn’t the worst part of the dream. Not nearly. He couldn’t move as he watched Mike fall nearby, he lingered in the dirt, in pain, forced to watch his entire platoon being wiped out. 

He woke with tears in his eyes. He slid his hand down to touch his lower leg, reassuring himself. His skin was unwounded, of course. Nate glanced at the clock. It was 3 am. 

The bedsheets were soaked with sweat. With a sigh, he dragged his tired body to the edge of the bed. It was too late (early?) to take a sleeping pill. He told himself that if he pushed himself hard enough today, he’d tire himself out for tomorrow. Sleeping tomorrow would have to be soon enough.


	7. Chapter 7

** Nate **

Sleep became another sort of enemy; something to be avoiding and outmaneuvered. Nate was half listening to late night TV and half arranging his notes, writing to try to calm the whirring thoughts in his head. 

The knock at his door startled him. He reached across his chest before he realized he was going for an M16 that was no longer part of his wardrobe. He wiped his palms on his plaid pajama pants instead. The adrenaline coursing through him was a hindrance here, when it was likely just one of his neighbors. He glanced at the clock and revised his opinion. Maybe some caution was warranted. It was later than he had thought. 

He approached the door cautiously, before leaning to look through the peephole. He wasn’t expecting anyone. His first thought was that someone was casing his apartment, wondering if anyone was home; if it was an easy mark. 

An icy wave of fear spiked down his spine before he recognized the figure on his front porch. Nate opened the door. 

“Brad,” he said. “What brings you out here?”

His stomach was trying to tie itself in knots. Brad couldn’t be here. Brad couldn’t be here _alone,_ not while Article 134 still cast a heavy shadow over what Nate would prefer to do. Not when Nate was still haunted by what they’d done on the other side of the planet. That kiss couldn’t mean anything. 

Brad was standing almost at parade rest, or he might have been if his motorcycle helmet wasn’t loosely held between one forearm and his hip. The leather jacket looked good on him. 

Nate hated that he noticed that. 

“I’ve been given orders, sir.” Brad gave a half-smile. “Turns out that the promotion came with some required learning.”

Nate blinked. He was overtired and not mentally acute enough to verbally fence at Brad’s level. 

There were moths circling the LED lamps on the porch, their determined flights ending with small taps that were loud in the silence on the porch. Nate felt like they were sharing his fate, striking up against something that’d hurt them in the end. 

Brad took a step closer, irritatingly rebellious. Nate could feel his presence press close around him. 

Brad continued, “I’m sure you’ll be as thrilled as I was to hear that I get to spend almost nine weeks in North Carolina learning, and I quote, the skills necessary to ‘clearly articulate my thoughts in oral and written communication’ among other delights. Such as learning to be a ‘problem solver’, sir.”

Nate fought a smile. His resolve was weakening. “If Godfather could guess what that might lead to, he’d be trembling in his boots.”

“If they wanted my insight I would be happy to provide it without returning to live on a base for over two months. On the East Coast.” From Brad’s tone, it was difficult to tell which of the two was more offensive. 

Something in the way Brad shifted made Nate suspect that he was about to head inside without an invite. Nate stepped outside, pulled the door shut behind him, and leaned on it. There was propriety to consider. He couldn’t have anyone thinking he was _friends_ with the marine he just promoted. It would call into question too much. He couldn’t invite Brad in, despite Brad being one of the few people that could easily meet him as an equal, maybe more. And his apartment was in an embarrassing state. 

Nate rubbed the bridge of his nose, partially to force his eyes shut and away from lingering on Brad. “As much as I would like to invite you in, I am still bound by the code of conduct.”

Brad stayed close, ignoring Nate’s words. 

Fuck. 

Nate wasn’t sure if he had the determination to stick to the rules he’d come to despise. 

“What is this, Brad?” Nate whispered, wanting desperately to hold onto something. His heartbeats ricocheted against his ribcage.

Brad searched his face.

“Will you be here when I get back?” Brad asked. 

Nate’s spine turned to ice, despite the humidity of the California summer. “What do you mean?” He needed to continue thinking that he had been hiding his inner turmoil. He didn’t want to announce to Brad of all people that he was thinking of quitting. 

At first, Brad didn’t dignify Nate’s question with a response. He stepped closer, into Nate’s space. The toe of his left boot hit the instep of Nate’s right foot. Nate’s instinct was to shift his foot away, to spread his legs and make room for Brad. He fought those instincts. 

With a deadly certainty, Nate knew that Brad had likely seen through his mask. They’d spent too many sleepless nights together — at a proper, respectable distance, before that one damned kiss — sharing thoughts and hopes and worries. Now that Nate had things he needed to keep to himself, it was hard to pull back from that connection. 

“You’re going to leave the corps,” Brad said, simply. As confident in the words as if Nate had handed him the signed documents. 

The fuck. 

“How long have you known?” Nate asked. His plans to quit had been tentative until recently. He stared down at their touching feet, thinking of long-ago briefings in Kuwait. 

Brad touched his chin. The leather of his riding glove caught slightly on Nate’s faint stubble. “Since Muwaffiqiya.”

Nate narrowed his eyes, feeling belligerent. 

Brad’s smile softened a bit, but his eyes were serious. The porch light stole the blue from them, leaving them gray, throwing the planes of his face into stark shadows. It should be unflattering. 

It wasn’t.

Nate swallowed. 

“The night recon at the amusement park just confirmed it.” Brad said softly. 

Nate narrowed his eyes. “I haven’t made my decision.”

“You lost faith in command over there.” Brad said it light it was simple. “You had to obey things that went against what you knew was right. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that you’re the kind of man to just accept acting as a mindless cog in a machine you don’t believe in.”

Nate cast his gaze downward. He had no excuse for the occasions when he hadn’t followed orders, or when he’d followed them against his better judgment. He knew he wouldn’t be going back for more of that, even if he stayed with the corps. They’d circulated him to a desk job, offered him a teaching position. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to take it. 

Nate wondered if Brad was disappointed. 

Brad continued, “Just think, sir. You’ll be one of the few who can back up interview answers like ‘what is your greatest weakness?’ with ‘I care too much’ and have it be true.” His overtone was mocking. 

Nate started shaking his head, but Brad didn’t let him back off. “You had our trust. You were exactly what we needed.” His smile turned bitter. “But nothing gold can stay, sir.”

His fingertips brushed Nate’s. 

Nate curled his fingers tentatively around Brad’s, not looking him in the eye anymore. Brad edged even closer. They were nearly chest-to-chest. 

“Why are you here, Brad?” Nate asked. He didn’t need one of his enlisted men giving him a pep talk on a decision he hadn’t made yet. 

“You know why.” Brad’s words were quiet. Nate could almost feel Brad’s lips move against his forehead, he was that close. 

He should threaten to report Brad. If he was a stronger man, he might have. It would end this now. He closed his eyes.

The kiss was supposed to have been a one time thing. Give in, get it out of his system. 

He could feel the rush it had provided. Viscerally. 

Nate’s resolve broke. 

“Alright,” he said. “Alright.” He was weak. Ultimately, it was the same reason why he couldn’t stay in the marine corps. He backed into his door, opening it. Brad followed him, a little too close. 

Brad didn’t fit into Nate’s life. Brad also didn’t care. 

Brad set his helmet down on a table in the hallway. Nate walked him back towards his bedroom. He couldn’t see apologizing for the messy conditions to Brad, although a part of him wanted to hide his belongings. He felt too exposed, he knew that Brad would be able to read exactly what he wasn’t saying through his environment. 

But maybe Brad didn’t care about that. Brad’s fingertips were at the edge of Nate’s t-shirt. His gloves skimmed along Nate’s sides, Brad’s thumbs coming to a rest on Nate’s hipbones. A gentle pressure stopped Nate’s retreat. 

Brad didn’t kiss him. That wasn’t what this was. 

He slid his hands up, and Nate let him peel the printed tee from his body, raising his arms. Neither of them cared where Brad dropped it. 

Brad was still full dressed, Nate was down to his pajama pants. 

Nate sat back on the side of his bed, nodded at Brad. Brad slowly took his leather jacket off. Fuck. Nate didn’t know why it hit him so hard. As inappropriate as Brad in uniform had been, Brad in leather was just as bad. 

Brad made an annoyed noise and dealt with his boots. Nate didn’t bother with the light. The faint glow cutting in from the living room was enough, and whatever was about to happen seemed better suited for the dark.

Nate glanced down. They hadn’t talked about this. Not about the kiss, not in general. He didn’t know if Brad had ever done this before. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

“Stop thinking so much,” Brad muttered, crowding Nate on his own bed. 

“Are you going to make me?” 

Brad pushed him down against the bed. Nate’s pajama pants offered no resistance, and Brad’s palm was suddenly warm against his belly. Nate shut his eyes tightly as Brad’s hand slipped lower and wrapped around his cock. 

Every creak of the house made Nate flinch, distracting him. He imagined VJ coming back, reporting him; his career ending in disgrace. His heart was pounding, amping up both desire and adrenaline. 

“Fuck,” he whispered. He didn’t know which was making his heart race.

Brad’s teeth dug into the edge of his jaw, scraping lightly, and Nate cared slightly less about analyzing his own response. 

Nate tilted his head back, giving Brad access to the tender skin. It was as much a submission as anything. He dug his hands into Brad’s arms, encouraging him. 

Brad’s hand was tight and demanding, a slick pleasure just on this side of pain. 

It wasn’t enough. 

Nate arched off the bed a little, reaching for Brad in turn. Compared to the clothes Nate slept in, it seemed like Brad was wearing armor. Nate felt uncoordinated as he struggled with Brad’s pants, the reinforced jeans rough against his fingertips. 

“You don’t have to,” Brad said, voice already rough and raw, like Nate was doing something more than failing at undoing a button. 

_I want to._ Nate couldn’t say the words though, so he made do with rough actions. 

Brad finally helped get his own clothing off, leaving them by the bed as Nate reached into his nightstand, finding a bottle of lube. He clicked the cap off and didn’t bother warming it before he reached down to slick himself open. He tensed with the cold sensation, and then again when Brad’s fingers join his own. Fuck. This was really happening. 

“Is this what you want?” Brad asked. 

Nate didn’t want to say it. He compromised. “If you do.”

Brad’s finger went from gently pressing at his entrance to pushing inside of him. Nate bit his lip, tried not to tense in reaction. It had been a long time and this was _Brad._

“Fuck,” Nate whispered. It was so good. Brad took the lube from him, added more to his fingers. Nate couldn’t force himself to relax. Nate trusted himself to Brad’s purposeful movements. It wasn’t that. But the significance of this…

Brad moved and Nate broke out in a sweat, forcing his body to relax, trying to soften.

“That’s it,” Brad whispered, making the words sound absolutely filthy. “You know you can take me.”

Nate wrapped his still-slick hand around Brad’s cock. Brad’s shudder added years to his life. 

When Brad’s movements lost their rhythm, Nate switched to a more teasing grip, testing what made Brad shiver and flex. He wanted to learn everything about Brad. He wanted to etch these moments into his memory. 

He focused on Brad. 

Finally, that was enough to allow him to relax. 

He glanced down his body, watching the shadows on his thigh as Brad worked him open. The initial tension had faded into a slick tease, the promise of something more to come. 

“How many is that?” he asked, leaning back against the pillows as he loosely ran his fist along Brad’s length. 

“Two,” Brad said. His voice was tight. “Enough?”

“Yeah,” Nate let his legs sprawl further apart. He swallowed. “I’m good.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to reassure himself of that truth. It wasn’t the physical act itself. This… there was no going back from this. 

Brad shifted closer, lining up. He was limned in gold from the hallway light behind him, one side highlighted but his face was shadowed. Nate bit his lip, tensing despite himself. 

The blunt press of the tip of his cock was almost white-hot as his body reluctantly gave way. Nate sucked in air and tried to stay relaxed. He dug his fingers into the mattress. 

“Fuck,” Brad whispered, again. Nate made the mistake of looking up. Brad was staring down at where they were joined, something like reverence in his expression.

Nate stroked himself as Brad moved achingly slowly, sinking deeper. It went on almost too long. 

But then Brad was inside him. He rolled his hips slightly, and heard Brad catch his breath as Nate urged Brad on, trying to silently communicate that he wasn’t breakable, that he wanted everything Brad could give him. 

But Brad slipped forward and Nate’s heel skidded across the bedsheet as he bit his own lip to keep the soft noises to himself. Brad reached down, hands curling under Nate’s knee and raising his leg. Fuck.

Nate collapsed back against the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and telling himself that he had to hang on, he couldn’t come just from this. 

It was almost too much. He could feel the heat of Brad’s sides against the back of his thighs. Brad’s hand were comforting, stroking Nate’s leg, pressing Nate’s thigh against his chest. 

Nate realized his breathing had gone fast and shallow, and he tried to control it, tried to control the shake in his limbs. He could feel the hot rush of sweat breaking out over his body as he tried to adapt, the physical reaction secondary to the knowledge that this was _Brad_ moving over him. 

Brad’s hand shifted, pressing in under Nate’s knee. Nate had never been the most flexible, but Brad encouraged his leg up and back towards Nate’s chest. The sense of Brad’s strength, especially in this vulnerable position, was formidable. Nate rarely found a partner that could legitimately manhandle him. 

Brad pressed Nate’s knee down towards his chest, bracing himself against it and started to move, slow thrusts that seemed like a test. Nate tensed around him and Brad shuddered, dropping his head. 

The initial resistance of Nate’s body melted slowly, and a glow spread through his center. The edge of pain sank into incredible pleasure. He started matching Brad’s movements. All he wanted to do was have Brad take over here, allow Brad to take what he wanted from him. 

“You don’t need to hold back,” Nate whispered. He wanted everything Brad could give him. 

Nate gripped onto him tightly, likely adding bruises to the violent colors of Brad’s tattoo near his hips.

He felt raw, exposed, but raw was also honest. He didn’t often let himself want like this. 

Nate stroked himself and Brad matched the speed of his hand, trapping Nate between twinned sensations. It was overwhelming, pleasure from everywhere at once. It quickly became too much to hold back. He wanted this to last much longer. He shut his eyes briefly but there wasn’t any stopping it.

Nate bit back a gasp and came, shooting over his own chest. He could feel where his body pulsed and contracted around Brad. Brad looked down, awe and heat in his dark, possessive gaze. 

He shuddered as Nate clenched around him, shifting forward and in a few more thrusts, he came deep inside of Nate. His hips rocked against Nate, sealing them together as he tossed his head back, matching Nate for holding back, staying silent in the wake of his pleasure. 

More than the physical connection disappeared when Brad withdrew. Nate breathed heavily in the sudden stillness of his own bedroom. Brad stretched out beside him. 

He stayed there for a while, just listening to Brad breathe beside him, before the urge to wash up overtook the post-orgasmic laziness. 

He slid his elbow over, nudging Brad’s ribcage. 

“I’m going to shower.”

Brad just grunted. 

Nate showered quickly and got himself dressed again in the bathroom, not willing to walk out naked and vulnerable, unsure if Brad would want to _discuss_ what had just happened. He needed some sort of defense; any layers between him and Brad would do. They could both want this, and it would always remained wrong. 

Dressing had been the right call. Brad was sitting up on the edge of the bed, fully clothed and holding his boots. He was sitting bent forward, like the weight of what they’d just done was pressing on his shoulders as well.

That was as much a sign as any. Nate was ashamed that he was almost relieved. He hadn’t wanted to tell Brad that he needed to go, but letting… whatever this was… linger was dangerous. 

He tilted his head towards the door. 

Brad nodded and got up.

He told himself that there’d be time later to sort his feelings out later. Right now this just _couldn’t be_ , so he tried to erase it from his mind, ignoring the way his heart started beating faster just at the sight of Brad heading towards him. 

Nate walked Brad back to his front door. He wanted to ask when Brad was actually leaving for the course, but it was too close to work, a forbidden topic after what they’ve just done. 

Brad only hesitated once, turning back to Nate as he picked up his helmet. Nate held himself rigidly, wary of what Brad might do or say. 

He needn’t have worried. With a silent half-smile that could mean anything or nothing, Brad slipped out the door, blending into the darkness. Nate shut the door and locked it. He couldn’t let this happen again. He scrubbed a hand over his face. 

The bedroom smelled like sex and exertion and as much as he wanted to hold onto the memories, he stripped the bed and put the sheets in the laundry, wishing he could get rid of the guilt in the same simple way.


	8. Chapter 8

** Nate **

Nate ended up getting the notification that Staff Sergeant Colbert had been assigned to the SNCO Advanced Course three days after Brad had actually left for it. He made a sharp comment to Patterson, and got only a sympathetic shrug in response. “It’s summer, Nate. There are a lot of courses going on.”

Last summer, Nate had been following Rudy through training exercises. This summer, he stayed behind his desk and watched his platoon dissipate, leaving him with too much time to think.

* * *

The duty officer handed Nate his mail. Nate took it with a quick smile, and set it aside on his desk.

Later, when he opened the guard mail envelope, he found a commission, folded in half. He hadn’t been expecting that. Oh, true, he knew that barring major fuckups, _everyone_ made captain, but he’d thought that his actions in Iraq had been enough to disqualify him. 

He leaned back in his desk chair, the squeak of its hinges loud in the small, shared office. Craig tapped his pen on the desk, and Nate could feel his irritation. 

He ran a hand through his hair. Captain. He’d actually been promoted, after everything.

He glanced around the office he shared with the other junior officers. The only people he wanted to share the news with weren’t in this room. He tucked the commission back into the envelop, and slipped it into his bag. If the higher-ups weren’t going to make a big deal of this, then he wouldn’t either.

* * *

He wanted to hear what Brad had to say about it. Nate was sure that the words would be cutting and amusing. He thought about actually calling Camp Lejeune, but he couldn’t justify it. He still couldn’t justify the friendship at _any_ level, much less in light of what they’d actually done.

* * *

He bought himself a bottle of Oban 14 on his way home. After the first glass, he removed the single bars from the collar of his uniform and slipped on the double bars, making sure they were properly seated. 

He had to smile. Fitting. After arranging battalion formations, ceremonies in Schwetje’s office… this was what they’d decided for him. 

When he’d earned his silver bar, he’d stood in Captain Whitmer’s conference room. The captain had read his commission. His girlfriend at the time and his father had been invited to the little ceremony, and had pinned the silver bars to his collar. He’d choked up a little reaffirming his oath of office. The other officers had joked with him after that, a flurry of congratulations. 

He’d been part of them, then. He’d belonged. 

Now?

Everything around him had changed. The sense of purpose that he’d once carried had been whittled away in a thousand pointless commands and confused orders. He wasn’t doing anyone any good. He couldn’t shelter his platoon from the worst of it. 

To be fair, he couldn’t imagine feeling much of anything besides annoyance from one of Captain Schwetje’s speeches, and the thought of trying to joke around with McGraw was physically painful. He poured himself another glass, and forced himself to savor it. 

His apartment was painfully empty. 

Any of his team leaders from OIF would be willing to celebrate. He thought briefly of calling Mike. But that thought was followed quickly by _or Brad,_ who was on the other coast. He mentally tallied the time zones. It was unreasonable, and not just because of the time difference.

They weren’t his friends, and the fact that his mind went to them was half the problem. 

He dialed the number to his parents’ house instead. 

“Hey, mom? Can you get dad on the other line? I’ve got some good news.”

* * *

He sat when Schwetje gestured to the chair opposite him. Nate’s new rank made little difference — if anything, Nate had thought it might increase the slight tension between them, but Schwetje was just as casual as ever. 

“So Nate, I’ve got your file here. It’s coming up on three-and-a-half years for you.”

Nate nodded. He’d been expecting this. 

Schwetje flipped through a few of the forms on his desk, finding the right paperwork. “Are you going to re-up?”

Even though he was prepared, his mouth went dry. “Captain Schwetje… I think my career is going to take a different direction.” He gave a faint smile. “Might take advantage of that GI bill and all, go back to school.”

Captain Schwetje nodded. He made it seem like that was the result he had expected. He slid a few of the forms over to Nate, and Nate left the room in silence.

No bang, no whimper.

* * *

The stories that get told were embarrassing and fond and heroic by turn. Too many little things he’d done without thinking; getting supplies, bartering batteries and lube, things he’d put out of mind almost immediately had made impressions. 

Brad looked around the room. “None of you peons were privy to this, but the captain saved our lives more than one time in Iraq.” The tales of Fick’s daring at Muwaffikiya had been told already. Brad paused, gathering attention, as if he’d also been a theater kid, holding the room. “In fact, his lies were the only reason we actually got to fire our weapons.”

Brad spoke of the stove explosion, and Fick’s willingness to straight-up lie to Godfather about where the stove had been. 

Fick had been able to maintain a mostly polite demeanor, despite the haze of alcohol. It hadn’t been the most significant moment that had passed between him and Brad, but those weren’t ever going to be for anyone else to hear.

* * *

Nate had gone outside to get some air. The paddle made it all seem real. He was really going to leave. This would be his last week with these men. Maybe his last week with Brad. 

He knew who had come up behind him before Brad spoke. 

“Congratulations Mr. Fick,” Brad raised a beer to Nate in a toast. 

Nate couldn’t help his smile. “You know you can call me Nate.”

Even with all the transgressions they’d been a part of, it was one thing Brad had never done. Nate wondered if his ‘promotion’ would be enough to bridge that gap. 

He couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing over Brad’s features. He prayed that Brad would. He needed to be accepted as he was now. Not an officer. Not in the chain of command. Just him. Just Nate. 

Brad looked at him and Nate wondered if this’d be the thing that Brad rebelled against. He was never sure what’d trigger Brad to dig in his heels. 

“Nate,” Brad said. Not this then. Brad’s half-smile didn’t reach his eyes. Nate could tell Brad was worried about something. Nate was unsure of how to ask.

He buried his uncertainty in another drink. “I should get back inside,” Nate said softly. He didn’t move. 

Brad nodded. “That would probably be the wise decision.” He matched Nate’s tone, low and quiet. 

Nate made a decision as he leaned against the porch railing. “You should come over,” he said. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to blame the alcohol. Not yet. “Later.” He had a ride arranged with Cara, courtesy of Wynn. He couldn’t change that, not without arousing suspicion. 

His eyes drifted to Brad’s bike, parked high on the driveway. 

Brad carefully set his beer down. “I think I can manage that, sir.” 

Nate heard the sir and winced. “It’s not an order. No more orders,” he mumbled. Maybe there had been too much alcohol. 

But he thought he was allowed this, now. He wasn’t an officer. He wouldn’t ask or tell a word. He’d be out of Oceanside forever by the end of next week. 

Brad’s smile was fleeting but genuine. “There might be some orders, sir. Depends on how you like it.” 

He lit a cigarette, and Nate lingered out there with him, staring at the smoke.

* * *

At the end of the evening, Wynn’s wife drove Nate home. Nate sat in the backseat, feeling like a teenager, like he was getting away with something that he didn’t deserve. 

He fumbled with the key to his apartment. Nothing was steady. He should go to sleep. 

He left the door unlocked and got himself a glass of water. He fell asleep — passed out — on the couch, waiting.

* * *

Nate woke with a pounding headache and a cloying sense of a missed opportunity. There was a bottle of bright yellow Gatorade and a familiar bottle full of Advil on the coffee table. Along with a post-it note. There was just a smiley face and a phone number drawn on it. 

Nate ran a hand through his hair.

Fuck.

* * *

August bled into September, and September into October. 

The people that he knew in California were rarely around. 

Sleeping became more difficult as time went on instead of easier. Feeling refreshed was a distant concept, but he’d been trained to drag himself out of bed, no matter the hour or the amount of sleep. He used that training to plan ahead, putting his irritable energy into something more productive. A box of kitchen things. Boxes of books. Neatly organized and labeled. 

One thing in his life he could control. 

He had meant to go through the applications process for another University. He’d been far too late for the fall intake, but he should be able to apply in time for the winter semester. But Nate had been sidetracked again, his attention span whittled to nearly nothing. He ended up browsing message boards and news articles. Nothing of importance. 

The knock at the door surprised him. He hadn’t been expecting anyone. He approached the door cautiously, but threw it open when he got close enough to glance through the peephole. 

Brad moved into Nate’s space as soon as he can, shutting the door behind him. He glanced around. “VJ still deployed?” he asked, assessing the current messy state of the living room. 

“Yeah,” Nate managed to say, and then his shoulder blades were against the wall, Brad’s thigh between his legs. 

Brad seemed intent on one thing. Brad’s mouth was hot on his neck and it didn’t take long before Nate was responding, pushing back with all the vigor he could manage. He wanted to hold onto the moment. He dug his fingers into Brad’s shoulders, keeping him close. 

After some time the room darkened, the glow of the shooting stars of his screensaver was the only light. 

It hadn’t been like this before, never this desperate. He moved against Brad. He wanted to be closer, he needed to be closer. He pushed Brad’s shirt higher, the solidity of Brad underneath as reassuring as it was tempting. 

Brad broke off from mouthing at Nate’s neck and urged him back towards the bedroom. 

Brad’s hands slipped into his pants and Nate pulled Brad tighter against him. Their feet tangled. It was messy and uncoordinated and he felt like he’d never wanted anything so badly. 

There was something frantic in the way Nate rode Brad, as if this might be the last time. He almost believed it when he told himself that the unshed tears were just due to a physical response. 

Afterwards, lying in bed, Nate ached with what he wanted to say. The time they’d spent out of contact while Brad had been at the Formal School Instructor’s Course had been testing, but there was nothing more he could ask for. It was a shitty situation for both of them, and there was no chance of it changing anytime soon. 

“Do you want to shower first?” Nate asked, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want to look over at Brad. He was certain that Brad would look at home there on his bed, and he didn’t want to deal with wanting that to continue.

Brad made a noncommittal noise. 

“Go,” Nate said, more firmly, making the decision for Brad. 

He dealt with the bed when Brad was down the hall, stripping the sheets and changing them. Might as well. 

“Premature, sir,” Brad commented on the fresh bedding when he walked back into the room, one of Nate’s towels around his hips.

“Presumptuous, marine,” Nate forced himself to tease back, trying to push away his stress and worries for the moment.

Brad’s smile was wide and easy. He looked at Nate, and Nate felt an answering heat in his belly. He could tease all he wanted. If Brad moved towards him with intent, he was pretty sure he was ready to respond again. 

Brad dropped the towel on Nate’s floor and stretched back out on the bed. Nate’s mouth twisted to the side; he was faintly amused at Brad leaving damp marks on the sheets again. “So where are you moving to next?” Brad asked, no preamble.

Nate turned away. He didn’t want to talk about leaving. Half his things were in boxes. He knew his situation was obvious. He didn’t want to get into this now. “I need to shower,” he said shortly, shifting the subject. Brad didn’t protest the abrupt response, and maybe because of that, guilt overtook Nate.

Nate paused by the door. He tried to dial back his frustration. It wasn’t Brad’s fault. He hated the way his satiated mood had just evaporated. Brad was watching him, likely seeing too much. 

“Our lease is up soon. It isn’t fair to ask VJ to sign on again and leave him with having to find a roommate after a few months.” 

Nate didn’t want this to be the end of their encounters. 

Brad’s patience was extensive. He didn’t give any indication of how annoying Nate’s dissembling might be, just gave him the space to find the words he didn’t want to speak. 

Nate shrugged one shoulder, looking away from that piercing gaze. 

“I guess I’ll go back to my parents’ place.”

“Are they still in Baltimore?”

Nate couldn’t remember when he told Brad where he’d grown up. “Yeah.” He didn’t think they’d spent that much time actually talking. Then again, half the nights in Iraq were blurred memories already, something unreal. 

He grabbed his own towel from the back of the door, wrapping it around himself out of habit. They were the only two in the place. 

“Mm.” Brad switched his gaze to the ceiling. 

That was it then.


	9. Chapter 9

** Nate **

Nate showered and tried to ignore the looming end of whatever the hell this was. Friends-with-benefits. Secret hookups. His bedroom was empty when he returned, the comforter neatly back in place, folded down underneath the pillows. The small gesture made Nate’s chest feel like a vice. He didn’t actually want to have the ‘it’s over’ discussion. A sixth sense told him Brad hadn’t just left. Nate pulled on clothes absently, wanting to not be naked if they’re going to discuss ending this… whatever. Arrangement. 

He told himself it wouldn’t be painful. He just had to accept that it was impossible. Something they couldn’t have. 

He made his way out to the kitchen, not wanting to draw out the process longer than necessary. 

“Article 134 doesn’t apply anymore,” Brad was drinking a beer instead of a coffee, the only indication of his state of mind that Nate could pick out. Coffee might have meant a quick departure; alertness for the road. 

“Correct.” Nate gave a thin smile. It was what it was. Brad was still a marine on active duty, after all, even if Nate was out.

Brad seemed to follow Nate’s line of thinking, but he apparently reached a different conclusion. He nodded a little. He looked completely confident. 

“That means this is now my sole risk to manage, sir.” Brad offered a half-smile again. “My private life has always been private when it comes to the corps. I can assure you that I’ve always managed that in the past.”

Nate was unsure of what to say to that. 

Brad set the beer down. The blinds were drawn, but Brad’s gaze drifted to the window anyway. Nate was unsure of everything, but willing to meet Brad where he was. He trusted Brad. He knew he’d failed Brad several times; at work, maybe personally. But he mimicked Brad’s calm. He opened the fridge, planning on matching Brad by grabbing a beer. 

“If you do want to stay near San Diego, I’ll make you a key to my place.”

Nate leaned back from the still-open fridge, eyebrows raised. 

Brad seemed entirely too calm to have just suggested what he had suggested. Nate searched his face.

Brad finally shrugged. He turned back to his beer, scraping at the edge of the label with his blunt thumbnail. Something in him seemed to subdue. 

“I’ve been accepted into the Winter Mountain Leaders Course,” he said. “It’d be a shame to just leave the place empty.”

Ah. The pieces fell into place. “Yeah?” Nate pried the top off of a beer with the Dartmouth opener hanging on the fridge. 

He couldn’t help it. He wanted to say yes, wanted any other chance to stay close. 

“Think about it,” Brad said before taking another pull at his bottle. “It’s nice and private. Good internet connection. A bit of a drive to Pendleton, but that won’t be a downside for you now.” Brad smiled around the bottle. “I find it a perk.”

Nate couldn’t help but see a challenge in his expression. He couldn’t quite figure out what was the win and what was the loss. 

“I’ll think about it,” he said. He’d been blindsided. It’d be easier — he’d have some time to figure out shipping his things, to wait and see what schools accepted him before he moved across the country, potentially to move again in a few months. “If you’re sure it won’t compromise you.”

Brad’s smile definitely took on a different edge. He set his beer down and stood, walking towards Nate until he crowded him against the counter. “I’m assured that you can keep a secret,” he said, his voice low. 

Nate tilted his head back, half-defiant in his teasing. He smirked at Brad, and took a sip of his beer. He could barely raise the bottle between them, there was that little space. 

When he lowered the bottle, Brad took it out of his hand. Nate let him. Brad took a final sip, then put it down on the counter. 

Anticipation threaded between them. 

Brad leaned in closer and kissed Nate’s lips. This time, he moved slowly and deliberately. It was a tease that left Nate a bit breathless, but rather than sit with that he pushed back, urging more, urging Brad to take things hard and fast. 

Brad pulled back, not giving in. 

“Tell me, sir, do you happen to have handcuffs in one of these boxes?”

Nate’s eyebrows raised. “Handcuffs? No…” he couldn’t help his smile. “Getting kinky on me?”

“Only mildly, sir.” Brad’s gaze was distant. “Rope?”

“I don’t think so.” Nate’s smile pulled at the side of his lips. He reached down to palm Brad through the sweatpants. “Should we talk about this?” he teased, feeling how hard Brad was. 

“You don’t seem to like talking,” Brad said softly. 

Nate swallowed, his smile departing abruptly. That was too close to the truth. He felt a little uneasy with those types of words, especially for this. It was better not to say anything.

Brad reached down, stroking Nate with just the tips of his fingers. Nate drew in a short breath, steadying himself. 

Nate considered the request. “Is that what you like?” 

“Talking, sir, or ropework?” Brad asked. 

Nate shut his eyes. Either would be a lot to handle, maybe too much for the moment.

Brad raised his hand, tracing a line down Nate’s neck. “I think I’d like anything with you,” he said, and it was as much of a non-answer as anything. Nate grasped about for something steadying. Some sort of sarcasm. But words evaded him, his thoughts becoming firmly focused solely on the possibility of getting off again. 

Brad sank to his knees on the laminate tiles of Nate’s kitchen. He leaned into Nate, just breathing against the crease of his thigh. He traced his fingers lightly over the front of Nate’s pajama pants. Nate shifted his weight, freeing a hand to run over Brad’s short hair. 

“Are you planning on teasing me all night?” Nate asked. He intended it to be rhetoric, a simple nudge for Brad to get on with it, but Brad smiled wickedly up at him and Nate had to rethink his strategy. 

“That’s one idea, sir.”

Nate didn’t even bother to try to tell Brad to drop the ‘sir’. 

“Might not be very comfy out here,” Brad said. “Not if you want to go all night.”

Nate tried to find something to say, despite his dry mouth. Brad was definitely teasing now, tracing his lips across Nate’s dick through the flannel. Nate was fully hard, wanting more. He strained towards the brief brushes of Brad’s lips.

Nate’s ability to form words shattered with Brad’s touch. His eyes slipped shut and he told himself that it shouldn’t be like this anymore.

Except it was. 

He gripped the peeling edge of his laminate counter like his life depended on it. 

“You know what to do,” Nate said, eyes remaining half shut. He drew the tips of his fingers over the short hair, threatening to hold Brad in place. He could feel Brad smile against his dick, the bastard. 

“The situation is unclear, sir.” Brad said, almost mockingly, and stood back up. 

Brad urged Nate away from the counter. Nate let himself be herded. He expected to go back into the bedroom, ready to defile the clean sheets, but Brad stopped in the living room instead. 

He placed Nate’s hands on the back of the couch. “Don’t move your hands,” he said. Nate looked over his shoulder at Brad, and Brad was on his knees again, pulling Nate’s pants down. Nate felt exposed. He was unsure of this. He glanced towards the front door of the apartment. 

“Brad…” he said. 

Brad made a faint noise of agreement, but his hands were on Nate’s ass, spreading the muscle apart. Nate was still sensitive from earlier, he had been tender when he cleaned up in the shower. He tensed, but Brad leaned forward. 

Brad’s tongue was something else. Nate swore loudly in the silence. Brad huffed a laugh, then returned his attention to other things. 

Nate was dripping. He shifted his hips back, both hoping for more and yet not. He reached back to touch Brad’s head. The short hairs were steadying against his hand. 

Brad firmly took hold of his wrist. “You’re not very good at taking orders, sir,” he said, a trace of humor in his expression. 

Nate was startled into a laugh. He was out now, he shouldn’t be expected to follow orders. “Are you going to make me, sergeant?” Nate teased, before he could think the better of it. 

Brad was herding him toward his own bedroom. Nate stepped out of his pajama pants and left them in the living room. 

Nate watched Brad go through his closet through half-lidded eyes. “What are you looking for?” Nate eventually asked. 

Brad made a noise that wasn’t a clear reply, but then he was back on Nate’s bed with the one tie Nate had with him out here. 

He knotted the silk around Nate’s wrists, then realized there wasn’t a headboard. Nate could watch Brad’s expression change as Brad reassessed the situation.

“Congratulations, sir,” Brad said dryly, simply knotting Nate’s wrists together and pinning them above the pillows. “You’re absolved of the responsibility to issue orders. Or to follow them.” There was a break in Brad’s confident mask as he settled back on his heels. “Is this okay?” he asked in a softer tone of voice. 

“Yeah,” Nate whispered back. “Don’t stop now.”

He tugged on the bindings between his wrists, unsurprised that Brad’s knots didn’t slip tighter.

And then Brad’s mouth was around him, and Nate didn’t manage coherent thoughts for some time.

* * *

When he called his parents, he told them it was so that he had more time on his own to write the applications for the grad student intakes next September. It was also a cop out. He didn’t mention anything about Brad. Instead it was ‘a friend’ who ‘may be deployed’ and had an extra room. 

He felt the walls of his current apartment judging him. 

He just didn’t know who he could tell. 

No one was safe.


	10. Chapter 10

** Nate **

To be honest, when Nate imagined Brad’s place, he figured it would be an average, middle-class house, or a shitty apartment on par with his own. 

It was obvious that Brad’s adopted parents had money. Brad didn’t apologize for it and Nate didn’t remark on it. 

Brad showed up in a practical SUV to help Nate move. The vehicle surprised Nate more than the assistance. 

There was underground parking. Nate’s beater followed Brad’s vehicle, and he took one of the visitor parking spots that Brad waved at. Nate got out and grabbed one of the boxes, following Brad to the elevator. “Third floor,” Brad said, and Nate hit the button. 

It struck Nate how strange this was. Across the ocean, they’d had an easy sort of rapport. 

Now everything suddenly seemed stilted.

Well, some things. Brad was unwavering. It unnerved Nate, the way Brad could be so confident in whatever this was that they were doing. 

The hallway was well-lit and short, only a few apartments on each floor in the small building. Brad headed towards the right, and Nate trailed after him. 

Brad opened the door and held it with an ankle. Nate quickly stepped in, and the door swung shut. “Wow,” Nate said. 

The entire front of the place was a massive window, opening onto a vista of the ocean. “This is…”

Brad set Nate’s first box on the counter. It was an open plan, with a kitchen to the left and a hightop counter with stools dividing the cooking space from the living room. It was sparse, but not unwelcoming, filled with clean lines that emphasized the blue ocean beyond. 

Brad nodded towards the doors on their right. He stepped out of his flip-flops so Nate copied him. The carpet was plush beneath his toes as he followed Brad. He sank into it. It was luxurious and strange after the flat, stained thing at his rental. 

“Master,” Brad said shortly, pushing open one of the doors to the left door. The master bedroom had the same wall-to-wall window. A sheltered patio wrapped around the front. Brad ducked back out, continuing the tour. “Bathroom, he indicated the next door, “and second bedroom.” This one was an interior room, lacking most of the stunning view, just a sliver of a tall window on the far side. 

“It’s perfect,” Nate said. He could see where he could put his bookshelf, and the tiny closet was more than enough for him. 

“There’s a storage locker in the underground parking area if you need space for anything big. It locks.”

Nate got very familiar with the path from the cars to the apartment. Although he told Brad he could go and do something else, Brad kept helping him move the boxes up. 

“There’s a decent sushi place up the road,” Brad said when they finished and he noticed Nate’s stomach growling.

“My treat then,” Nate said quickly.

* * *

Brad was incongruous in his passenger seat, slouched in a t-shirt and the leather jacket. The night threatened to dip down to 50 degrees. Brad directed, and Nate smiled ironically. All they needed was a damned Blue Force Tracker between them. It was like a glimpse back into another time.

* * *

A sense of unease followed Nate around Brad’s space. There weren’t the familiar guidelines anymore. They had slowly erased every boundary that had allowed Nate to be comfortable with… whatever this was. He’d been able to write it off before. Just physical. Just a release of tension. Maybe misplaced admiration on his part. 

Now…

He didn’t know. Maybe it still was just physical, although from what he knew of Brad it’d be out of character. 

He made himself a cup of tea and headed out to the little balcony to watch the waves roll in. The crash of the ocean was new constant companion. It was cold for California, but still mild compared to where he had grown up.

“Do you surf here?” he asked when he heard the sliding door behind him. 

Brad stepped up to his side. He bracketed Nate against the solid railing, one arm lightly against Nate’s back. “No. This is beach break.” Nate didn’t even hear condescension in the brief explanation. Nate watched the waves hit the beach, hypnotized by the glow of the moonlight over the foam. 

Brad drew him back inside after a while. He tugged him into the master bedroom rather than the living room. 

It felt different here. Brad didn’t bother to pull the sliding door shut, didn’t bother with drapes or hiding. The half-wall around the balcony kept anyone from seeing in from below, and there was nothing out there but the horizon. 

It was airy, light. Adult, somehow, grown-up in comparison to a cheap apartment crowded with the threat of his housemate returning. It made him feel like an actor in a play, pretending to have everything figured out. He didn’t deserve this. 

Nate sank to his knees by the bed, settling between Brad’s legs. He leaned his head into Brad’s lap, feeling the strong, reassuring pressure of Brad’s hands on the back of his scalp. 

“Off,” Nate whispered, tugging at Brad’s pants. Brad complied. 

Nate stroked him slowly, enjoying the growing need that he could feel building. He just used his hand at first, until Brad was twitching and leaking and his hold on patience was fading. 

Nate made it easy on himself, making a messy fist and holding Brad’s base as he took the tip into his mouth. He made it sloppy in a way he wouldn’t otherwise allow himself.

Brad’s soft noises were reward enough. Nate shifted his free hand down so that he could palm himself. 

He got so turned on doing this. He was spurred on, trying to take Brad deeper, almost choking himself in his enthusiasm, his need to make Brad sound like that again. Brad’s hands were steadying against his cheeks, guiding him back towards a more shallow position. 

He watched the contraction of muscles play across Brad’s abs, the aborted thrusts and the way Brad clenches his thighs and knew that Brad was close. He slid his hands up Brad’s legs and held his hips steady, making encouraging noises. 

Brad gasped and came. Bitter heat flooded Nate’s mouth and he swallowed quickly. He could feel the pulse of Brad’s contractions against his tongue, wanted to be closer, wanted to be inside Brad. 

Brad eventually shifted his hips, pulling free from Nate’s mouth with a contented noise. “You’re amazing,” he whispered. 

Brad guided Nate up and collapsed back on the bed, pulling Nate with him. 

Nate listened to Brad’s racing heart. He wasn’t the one who was amazing here.

* * *

Brad didn’t get weekends. He got assigned to training ‘exercises’ that started on Thursday and stretched until Sunday evening. 

He often returned to the apartment exhausted. 

“How was it?” Nate asked. 

Brad was worn out, but he managed to smile. “Not as bad as Iraq.”

Nate offered a sympathetic smile. Nate felt like an outsider as Brad moved about with efficiency, unloading his uniform into the washer. He moved through the place, grabbed Nate’s laundry with his own to fill the load. Nate bit back a comment. It felt too domestic. 

“Do you want a beer?” Nate asked. Brad looked like he needed a cup of coffee or about 24 hours of sleep, but Nate didn’t want the lecture and condescension that would come with offering that. 

Brad shook his head. He stripped off his clothes and added them into the washer too, utterly unselfconscious. “Gonna shower,” he said, and it was the short phrases in place of lengthy insults that made Nate wonder what went wrong during the training. 

He listened to Brad close the door of the bathroom, heard the hiss of the shower. In the kitchen, the ticking clock was overwhelmingly loud. 

It wasn’t a relationship, he reminded himself. To even be friends with benefits still required a level of friendship that they hadn’t started out with. He was just a housemate. This was just for convenience.

* * *

Nate heard the turn of the key in the lock and was instantly awake. He listened for confirmation, the soft scuff of a boot on the tile entryway, the muffled thump of something heavy hitting the floor. Brad was back. 

He’d been alone in Brad’s apartment for over a month while Brad endured the Winter Mountain Leaders Course. 

Nate pried himself up and out of the warm bed. He hadn’t been sleeping well, anyway. He went to the door of the guest bedroom and leaned on the doorframe, adjusting to the light in the main room.

Brad was hanging up a new set of BDUs in winter white in the coat closet by the entrance. 

Brad turned to him. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The uncertainty bled out of Nate when Brad moved towards him. Brad always moved like he knew exactly what he wanted. Nate hadn’t realized just how much of a touchstone it had become for him. 

When Brad reached for him, Brad’s knuckles brushed against Nate’s hand. It was a visceral reminder of various moments stolen in theater, when every motion had to look accidental, had to have a layer of deniability.

* * *

There was a difference between desperate, glad-to-be-alive sex and the furtive I-just-need-to-get-off sex. This was something else. Something tender. Something that felt like it meant something. 

_I missed you._ Despite everything, it still felt like the type of thing he couldn’t say. 

Brad rolled over and rested his chin on Nate’s belly. Apparently the grooming standards in the winter school had been different. He had the beginnings of a beard, already grown in soft enough that it didn’t irritate Nate’s stomach. It was the heaviness of Brad’s head that had Nate shifting. He went to push Brad away, and somehow ended up running his hands through Brad’s hair instead. 

Nate thought he’d let himself grow soft, that he needed to think of this as just something physical. He ran his hands along Brad’s scalp again, enjoying the sensation. 

Brad bit at his hipbone in lazy retaliation.


	11. Chapter 11

** Nate **

“There’s a public beach that’s a bit of a hike in. I’ll bring a board for you.”

“Brad,” Nate said. “We can’t.” The old worries hadn’t subsided. 

Brad had been more reserved when it was just the two of them. More cautious. Or at least that was Nate’s best read of it. Whatever the cause was, it ended up with Brad being rather polite. Not now. He pierced Nate with a wide grin. “Maybe _you_ can’t, sir.”

Nate felt the hit. He looked down at the application he was writing. Trying to translate his experiences and emotions into lessons was so painfully forced. He hated every word on the page. There was no way anyone could understand what they’d been through over there. “What if someone sees us?”

“You’re not an officer any more, are you? All work and no play, _Mr._ Fick.” When Nate looked back up, Brad had raised an eyebrow. “My second board is a hippo, Nate. It’ll float over anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

It was not. 

Nate’s thoughts were focused on other what-ifs, involving what-if-someone-sees-them-and-knows and what-if-Brad-takes-the-fall for this. Things that mattered much more than his lack of surfing skills.

Nate made a noncommittal sound, and hoped that Brad would drop the idea.

* * *

Brad got up early the next morning. It was still dark out, but that wasn’t unusual. Nate heard Brad typing at one of the computers, which was also not unusual. He tried to go back to sleep. Brad appeared in the doorway. “Surf cams are looking good. Buoys are showing a decent swell. You have fifteen mikes to get your ass in the car.”

Nate blinked against his pillow. “You go ahead,” he said. 

“This is non-negotiable.”

* * *

When they arrived at the parking lot it was still dark out. There weren’t any other cars there. Brad unstrapped the boards from the top of the car, efficient enough that Nate felt irritatingly useless when he tried to help. The board Brad handed Nate was thick and unwieldy compared to the second one he took down. 

Brad guided both boards into a lean against the car and rubbed a new layer of wax into the textured surface on the one that was ‘his’ for the day. Nate copied him. Brad glanced at him a few times, but didn’t feel the need to correct anything. Nate guessed that this was hard to mess up. 

Brad had thrown two of his full wetsuits into the backseat. “Take the four-three,” Brad said, his first words since they got there and Nate resigned himself to looking at the tags to confirm the thickness, finding the one marked 4/3. The winter air was painfully cold when he stripped down to his swimsuit. Southern California wasn’t nearly Baltimore, or Boston, but before dawn it wasn’t exactly pleasant, either. The neoprene pulled uncomfortably at his skin as he yanked it up his legs. 

Brad set the one pair of boots at his feet. Nate opened his mouth to argue, but Brad seemed to sense it and fixed him with a glare. Nate weighed his options. He zipped the boots on, too. 

Brad headed off down a narrow trail in his sandals. 

Nate followed Brad down the path, feeling a bruise start to form on his hip. There was no comfortable way to hold the board. It dug into his armpit and stretched his fingers. He wondered just how long the hike in actually was. “I’m not a surfer,” he felt the need to caution Brad. He didn’t know what Brad was expecting. 

Brad didn’t bother to reply. 

Nate got the feeling that a pleasant morning surfing may not be the point of all this. 

He set his jaw in determination. He wasn’t going to be the one to back down.

* * *

Nate was already tired by the time he fought through the breakers. He wasn’t bitter. He understood buoyancy, but seeing the sleek way that Brad nosed his shorter board under the same waves that caught his and pulled him back was just one more annoyance. The little things had been getting under his skin lately. 

Nate let himself collapse over the board, grateful that he was finally floating with the swells instead of battling the waves. 

Brad pushed himself up to a seated position, just letting himself bob with the waves. The sun was starting to lighten the sky, and the white of the breaks scrolled across the bay, erasing the view of the beach. 

It should be peaceful, but there was something else underneath it. This should be an escape. Nate felt like Brad had dragged him out here for a different reason. There was a tension in Brad that didn’t mesh with the open skies and freedom of being out on the water.

“What is this, Brad?” Nate finally asked. 

“It is what it’s always been,” Brad said cryptically. He turned to look at Nate, but there wasn’t any hint of a smile on his features. He seemed to look through Nate, and Nate felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

Nate searched Brad’s face, trying to decipher his intent. “What do you mean?” 

Brad’s expression, usually so open, remained guarded. 

A larger swell pushed up underneath them. Attuned to the water, Brad turned back to the shore, glancing over his shoulder to the open ocean. The next swell pushed them up, and Brad seemed to take it as a sign. As they sank lower in the trough between the swells, he dropped to his chest on the board, started slicing through the water. Brad picked up a fair bit of speed before the dull crest of the third wave pushed Nate up. It obscured his view of Brad. When the tip broke into whitewater, he didn’t see Brad’s board for a few troubling moments, then he saw Brad pop up, barely visible beyond the cresting wave. The wave foamed out closer to the shore, and Brad was silhouetted in the distance, looking graceful as he simply stepped off the board and into waist deep surf. 

Nate mulled over Brad’s words as Brad swam back out. 

The first actual blaze of sunlight nudged over the horizon, and he had to squint against the sudden reappearance of light. 

It is what it’s always been.

* * *

Nate tried. He really did. 

His shoulders burned as he tried to get enough speed, but the wave overtook him, catching the fins of his board and sending him tumbling in blinding, suffocating turbulence. Salt water stang, abrading the capillaries in his nose. The strap around his ankle yanked at him. The moment or two he was underwater seemed to stretch on, but he resurfaced. He didn’t panic.

He’d been drownproofed, after all. 

This was nothing. 

There were no sadists with fire hoses to interfere with him trying to draw another breath, it was just him and the ocean. He was his own enemy here. He followed the leash back to his board, managing to catch hold of it but not quite in time. The next wave dragged him further towards the shore in a foamy wash, the grit of stirred up sand chaffing underneath the velcro of the leash. This time, he got to his board and started the long, slow crawl back to beyond the break. Back to Brad. 

Unsurprisingly, Brad lapped him. 

When he was beyond the break, Nate clung to the board, content to just float. He hadn’t thought he’d gotten out of shape, but muscles he didn’t usually use were complaining. He drew his feet up on his board, wary of sharks. 

Brad pushed himself up to a sitting position too, content to bob in the water nearby. 

There were a few other forms on the beach now, setting up tents, waxing boards now that the sun was slightly above the horizon. They weren’t going to have the place to themselves for very much longer. 

“What did you mean by that?” Nate finally asked. 

Brad looked over at him. “By what?”

“By what ‘it’s always been’.”

Brad shrugged. “Hot and cold, Nate. Hasn’t it?”

Nate’s eyebrows pulled together. “Us?”

Brad gave Nate a brief half-smile. There was very little humor in it. “You, in particular.” There was a seriousness in Brad’s expression as he let his smile fade. Brad looked almost sad. 

Nate immediately wanted to challenge Brad’s words. He narrowed his eyes, but Brad continued before he could figure out the best way to protest. 

“I know what I want,” Brad said. “Can you say the same?”

Nate didn’t flinch. “It’s not that easy,” he said. 

“No, I guess not. But it could be.” Brad turned, but not before Nate caught the curl of contempt on his lips. Nate’s temper flared. He drew in a breath, then cut himself off. Brad knew the risks. Brad knew the rules.

“I don’t know what you want, Nate. I’d give it to you if I could,” Brad said softly. 

And then Brad caught sight of something behind Nate’s shoulder. Nate turned to look, seeing only endless swells. When he turned back to Brad, Brad was stroking his way back towards the shore, the first swell passing underneath him. He timed it perfectly. 

Nate saw him push up and drop over the wave just as it starts to crest. He followed Brad’s dark silhouette as he rocketed towards the shore, graceful in a way that was out of Nate’s reach.

* * *

Between the two of them, Brad had rarely been cryptic. He’d given Nate an apartment key, had walked back statements Nate was uncomfortable with. It had always been Nate drawing the lines between them — maybe a holdover from worries about fraternization, maybe because of his own past experiences. 

He realized that Brad had been clear with his intentions. He’d just never asked, had assumed whatever was easiest for him to handle. 

Nate took a breath. Even with Brad’s skill, it’d take him a while to get back out there. Nate bobbed alone, still thinking. 

All of Brad’s training to act, rather than to question. 

Maybe thinking was the problem. Nate tried to put all of that out of his mind. He should be in the moment. He was out here, on the ocean. That was all. He could follow Brad’s lead. 

He followed Brad’s cautious instructions for when he was allowed to drop in, and swam for the next wave. There wasn’t a line forming yet, so he didn’t have to worry about dropping in front of anyone else.

There was a rush, and he felt the wave catch under him, pushing him forward. He staggered up on the board, feeling ungainly as a fawn, all awkward legs and angles as he found his balance. 

He ended up riding the wash nearly to the shore, hopping down in knee deep water before he risked smashing the fins into the sand. 

He waited on the beach for Brad to make his way back to shore. 

“You don’t want this to end, do you?” Nate asked, more direct than he’d ever been about their relationship. 

Brad looked at him. Nate got the sense that he was holding back, keeping something reserved. “No, Nate,” he said, after a long pause. “But that’s not really a decision that only one of us gets to make.”

Nate tightened his lips. He held Brad’s gaze as long as he could, then cast his eyes down, brushing wet sand from the board. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of this as something that could be. Not with Brad’s job. Not with their history. 

But the last few months… 

Brad’s hand bumped his. “C’mon. Your lips are blue. Let’s head out and warm up.” It was a distraction, but Nate realized he was shivering. 

He tapped the back of his hand against Brad’s and nodded. 

They were picking their way through the trees again, before Nate realized that Brad had handled him, guiding him away from any confrontation with a skill that made Nate uneasy. He didn’t want to know where Brad had learned manipulations like that. 

Nate set his jaw. 

He wanted to say something, but the old paranoia followed him. He didn’t know who would be coming down the trail. He kept silent, and Brad let him. 

But he couldn’t just brush it away forever.

* * *

“You know I’m willing to give this a chance, right?” he said, when they were tucked into the car, the windows cracked open against the damp scent of seawater rising from their wetsuits.

“Are you?” Brad said softly. Nate glanced over at him. He hadn’t expected to be able to see tension leach out of Brad. He hadn’t realized Brad was carrying that sort of stress. Certainly not over this. 

Nate nodded. He glanced out along the highway. “It won’t be easy,” he cautioned. 

Nate could practically hear Brad raise his eyebrows in the silence. “Easy like moving in together?”

Nate furrowed his brow. “We…” Well. Technically they had. He’d thought it had just been convenience. 

“Easy like spending almost every free evening together?”

Nate twisted his lips to the side. “That’s not what I meant…”

Brad shrugged. “It can be as easy as we make it.” 

Brad reached over from the gear shift, touching Nate’s thigh lightly. Nate tensed immediately, looking out at the traffic. It wasn’t like there was anyone looking at them. He stared out the passenger window, but slipped his hand into Brad’s.

Small steps. 

As easy as they could make it.

* * *

Back at Brad’s apartment, Nate felt worn out. His body was heavy in the way that often promised an incoming sunburn, and he could barely keep his eyes open. A shower and a few glasses of water had done him good, but it wasn’t enough to keep him going. 

Despite the physical weariness, he was satisfied. He started loading the dishwasher cleaning up after Brad’s breakfast feast, wondering when he’d gotten used to the amenities of day-to-day life again. It had felt so unreal for a time. 

Now? If he was honest, this felt like home. 

Brad was back on his laptop, using the desk in the living room. From behind the kitchen island, Nate watched him type. 

Home. 

It was strange to realize that he’d made himself at home here. He’d just expected this to be a way station. He hadn’t expected everything that had come along with the key. 

Nate dried his hands and sleepily made his way over to Brad. He glanced briefly at the computer screen, making sure he wasn’t interrupting anything important, then leaned into Brad’s space. 

Aside from his thought-out efforts during deployment, he’d never been as physically demonstrative as Brad. Part of it was just who he was; although part of it had been having to hide. It was easier if there wasn’t anything that could give him away in an careless moment. 

“I’m going to go take a nap,” he said, touching Brad’s arm like he had in the beginning, back in Iraq. It had always been something more than a way to get Brad’s attention. 

Brad swiveled, catching hold of Nate’s arm and kissing the part of it that was nearest. 

Nate smiled, sleepy and content.

“I don’t say it enough, but…” Nate looked away, his throat suddenly thick. “… you know I’ve enjoyed every moment here with you. Like this. I don’t actually want it to end, either, you know.”

Brad’s lopsided smile emerged, slow and fond. He leaned away once, powering down the laptop and standing. “Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

Nate smiled as Brad stood up. “Joining me for a nap?”

“Mmm. We’ll see,” Brad said, letting Nate lead him into the bedroom.

* * *

** Brad **

Brad thought of those first few months, of trying to figure out which side of a shifting line he was on. He looked down at Nate, where he was lying across Brad’s bed, the light through the half-turned blinds forming slats across his body. 

There were still lines between them. There may always be, in some way or another. 

But finally, Brad knew exactly where he stood.


End file.
